


Lonely Eden

by EllenOfOz, Threshie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beekeeping, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Croatoan Virus (Supernatural), Cuddling & Snuggling, Farmer Castiel (Supernatural), Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Gardens & Gardening, Goats, Guilty Dean Winchester, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Lonely Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Oral Sex, Permaculture, Soft Castiel (Supernatural), Soft Dean Winchester, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Touch-Starved Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24020491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Threshie/pseuds/Threshie
Summary: Dean and Sam Winchester are running across the country during the aftermath of a viral outbreak, one that turns people into violent and mindless versions of themselves: Croatoan. When they stumble on a lone uninfected man living on a permaculture farm in the High Sierra, they aren’t expecting to find the help they’ve been craving.Castiel Novak has lost everything to the virus—his parents, his sister, whatever life he had before. His existence in Eden is perfunctory, merely existing day to day. That is, until the two brothers turn up in his orchard, one of whom happens to be the most attractive man he’s ever seen.But when what’s chasing them catches up, it will take everything they have to protect Eden, and each other.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 138
Kudos: 327
Collections: Perfect Pair Bang 2020 (Official), The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to _Lonely Eden!_
> 
> This fic was put together by EllenofOz and Threshie for the Perfect Pair Bang - a bang where anonymous authors and artists were matched up in a speed-dating type scenario. Thanks have to go to all the mods of the PPBang for creating such a neat idea and friendly atmosphere.
> 
> We've collaborated all the way through, since last September, in fact - long before Coronavirus was ever imagined. While there is a virus present in this story, it's nothing like Coronavirus. That said, each of the characters is suffering isolation and loneliness, and I know many of you are going through similar emotional turmoil. Please look after yourselves, and feel free to reach out to me or to someone you trust if you need someone to talk to <3
> 
> Please note, I have taken some liberties with canon Croatoan for this story. Don't be mad with me :)
> 
> The art in this story was created by the fabulous Threshie - [here's a link to the art masterpost](https://threshasketch.tumblr.com/post/617255012246192128). There are no words to describe just how delightful working with her on this story has been! Thanks for everything <3 
> 
> I also have a host of helpers to thank, from early cheerleading to last-minute beta-reads: WaywardAF67, WaywardJenn, CBFirestarter, TrenchcoatBaby, MalMuses and LanaSerra, love you girls <3
> 
> On with the story!
> 
> -Ellen
> 
> Threshie here, and fhskgfhdgdfh posting day is upon us! This bang has been such a wonderful experience, and so has working with Ellen! I made the artwork and we very much collaborated on the plot, outlining and brainstorming the whole thing together, but Ellen did all of the final writing here, so don't let that co-author tag for me fool ya. I'm a co-creator. ;) Any tugging of heartstrings individual scenes may give you? All Ellen's lovely writing. ♥ 
> 
> This has been a great time and a fun way to make a new friend, and I'm so excited to finally get to share our creations with everybody! Without further ado, please enjoy _Lonely Eden_...
> 
> -Threshie ♥

Dean stumbles up the hill, the rocks rolling under his feet. Surely there has to be a road ahead—a town, maybe— _something_. 

But the view from the top is empty, just more of the same rolling foothills heading down into bleak, moonlit desert. 

Disappointed, he shivers, rubbing his arms against the chill in the predawn air. He thinks the sky is starting to get lighter—they need to find somewhere to hole up for the daylight hours, and soon.

As he turns, something catches his eye—a dip in the way the hill curves, perhaps. There is a road down there—well, it's a dirt track, but as he peers down at the tire tracks winding between grassy clumps, he sighs in relief. Hopefully it'll lead to a farmhouse or an actual road, with any luck. They need a win, badly. 

He trudges back down the hill to where Sam sits slumped, his back to a large rock. His brother barely glances up as Dean approaches, his long, dirty hair hanging down around his downturned face. He's shaking, Dean realizes, and he hurries to Sam's side. The bandage wrapped around his shoulder and under his armpit is loose—loose enough to see the puckered flesh around the edge of his wound. He grimaces, but puts his hand on Sam's uninjured shoulder as he drops to his knees. They need shelter and water before he can fix Sam up.

"Sam? I found a road. Come on, let's get moving."

Sam lifts his head, his face pale and shiny with sweat. "You k-keep going, Dean. I don't think I can g-go any further." 

Dean rolls his eyes, trying to get a firm grip on Sam's arm. "Course you can. C'mon, we talked about this already, remember? I didn't drag you all this way just to fucking leave you behind, okay? Get up."

He drags Sam to his feet—no easy task when the kid is now pretty much a foot taller than him. When had that happened, Dean wonders. 

Sam inhales sharply as his shoulder is jostled, and blows out the breath in a burst of what must be agony. Dean can feel how warm he is through the plaid overshirt he's wearing—they've got to get somewhere and give the fever a chance to break, or Sam's never gonna—

 _No_ , Dean tells himself firmly. Keep moving. 

With a glance behind them down the valley, Dean helps Sam to move forward. There's no way to cover their tracks, especially when Sam's feverish like this and barely lifting his boots. Dean just holds onto the hope that the dry creekbed they'd trekked up for a few miles earlier that night will be enough to lose their tail. 

The vehicle track is barely visible in the dim light creeping in over the horizon, but Dean finds it again. As they move along, he can see that the soil is undisturbed. It's been a while since anyone drove along here. That's hardly a surprise—they haven't seen a soul out here in the desert, living or Croatoan. Dean's not sure he'd have the spoons to deal with another attack, anyway. 

Sunlight creeps over the hills, lighting up the Rockies looming ahead and gradually turning up the saturation on the desert, with all its reds and browns. Dean blinks a few times, then rubs at his eyes—he really needs to get some sleep, because that bluff over there looks like it's got trees on it, and they haven't seen trees for… 

"Dude," Dean says, still not quite believing his eyes. Sam makes a non-committal grunt as he puts one foot in front of the other. "You see that?" 

"See what?" Sam croaks out, lifting his head and following Dean's pointed finger.

"That look like a forest to you?" Dean asks, trying to pull Sam along faster. If there are trees there, that means water, and their bottles had run dry a few hours ago. 

It feels like it takes them forever to stagger up the incline, following the now graveled driveway to one side of the bluff. Steep cliffs drop away on the western side, down to what looks like a dry riverbed in the valley below. The flatter section at the top of the bluff is obscured by a wall of trees, but he can make out a building tucked between them out towards the cliff edge. 

The driveway leads up to a black steel gate between stone fence posts, one of which carries a sign reading “Eden” with the number “14” above it. Before they reach the gate, Dean nudges Sam to the edge of the path under the trees, just in case someone is actually watching. They clamber through a barbed-wire fence, push through thick, low-hanging branches and find themselves…in an orchard. 

At least, that's what Dean's pretty sure it is, if the fruit hanging from a few of the lush trees is anything to go by. Early sunlight slants in through the green canopy, while birds sing somewhere in the distance— _birds_. Dean stands still, staring around them, while Sam sways on his feet beside him. 

"Are we in heaven?" Sam mumbles, making Dean bark out a laugh. 

"Maybe," he says, moving forward across the patchy grass, staring at the tree in front of him. Those are apples, he's almost certain, but as he reaches up to pick the lowest of them, he hears the unmistakable sound of running water. Apple in hand, he turns to the sound and rushes over to what looks like a long, straight ditch, leading down the slope from a pond. He clambers up to the edge—there's a large lip to lean down, but he unhooks the water bottle from his pack and fills it up. Drinking deeply, he sighs. Perhaps they have found heaven.

He turns to head back down to Sam, when he stops dead in his tracks. There's an animal, a goat, watching him from a few feet away. It chews on something, slowly and deliberately, its odd, unnerving vertical pupils trained on him. 

_Lunch_ , Dean thinks, and moves his hand slowly to the long knife strapped to his thigh. He misses his gun for hunting, but the bullets are precious—he keeps those for Croat headshots. Inching forwards, knife now in hand, he lunges to try to grab the goat, but it jumps backwards like a goddamn cat, letting out what Dean can only describe as an ear-splitting scream as Dean thuds onto the clumpy grass. The goat turns and bolts out of sight, the sound of its hooves fading into the gentle silence. 

Dean struggles to his feet, cursing himself. Why hadn't he just thrown the knife? Might have had better luck than just throwing himself to the ground. He limps back to Sam, who has slumped against a tree trunk near the fence, his eyes closed.

"Sam? I've found water—here." Dean holds the bottle out. Sam cracks an eyelid but makes no move to take it, so Dean drops to a squat and takes the lid off for him. “Sammy, you gotta drink. We haven’t had any all night.” Sam’s panting, shallow breaths brush past his lips, and when Dean holds the back of his hand to Sam’s forehead, it burns. “Shit,” he mutters, holding the bottle up to Sam’s mouth, helping him gently to tilt his head back. “That’s the way.” He tips the water into Sam’s mouth and sighs with relief as he swallows. 

He looks around the orchard again, figuring here’s as good as any place to have a break. Picking the apple back up off the grass, he takes a bite and nearly spits out the bitter mouthful. “Guess home-grown aren’t as nice as the ones in the store,” he chuckles, and Sam casts him a brief, glazed look before closing his eyes again. 

Dean lies back on the grass, scratching at the several-day stubble on his chin. Squinting up at the branches overhead, he's glad for the shade. At least they hadn’t had to run in the middle of winter or anything, but the late summer heat has still been harsh when they haven’t been able to find proper shelter.

He closes his eyes to listen better to the wind moving in the trees, to the calls of birds he hasn’t heard in weeks. 

It only feels like a few moments before he’s kicked hard in the shin. Jerking awake, he says, “Dammit, Sam, what’re you—” He stops dead when he opens his eyes and sees the muzzle of a rifle in his face.

At the other end of it is a very angry man, who growls, “What are you doing here?”

Dean raises his hands slowly, watching the white-knuckled grip the other guy has on the rifle. Looks like he doesn't often get visitors. 

He speaks slowly, trying not to startle him. "Just…take it easy there, dude. We—" 

“What,” the guy bites out, “do you _want_?”

“Nothing, I swear!” Dean says, not daring to drag his eyes away to even glance at Sam. “We're just passing through. Looked like the place was abandoned.”

The guy stares at Dean down the length of his gun, eyes narrowed, before his eyes flick up to Sam. “What's wrong with him?” 

“It's not Croatoan, okay?” Dean says hurriedly. “The last Croats we tangled with were like a week ago. He's injured—took a nasty cut to the shoulder while we fought them.”

The guy takes a long look at Sam, not moving the gun from Dean’s face. 

Dean tries to keep the desperation from his voice. “Look, my name's Dean, this is my brother, Sam. If we could just rest here today, we'll get out of your hair at nightfall.” He tries for a smile.

The guy's eyes flick back to Dean. They're a clear shade of blue, piercing and hard as steel, and Dean can almost see him weighing his decision. He braces for the worst—he's heard of freeloaders being shot for trespassing post-Croatoan, and who can blame people, really? Desperate times. 

The guy's eyes return to Sam, and Dean sees the slightest softening in his face. He turns, saying gruffly, “Bring him.”

Dean stays still as he watches the man turn and head away through the trees.

“Dean?” Sam croaks, and Dean whips around to see him struggling to sit forward. 

“Whoa, Sammy, hold on.” Dean scrambles to his feet, bending to help a shuddering Sam to his. “What’re you doing? We’re just gonna, what? Go with Ted Bundy?” 

“He c-could have shot us here,” Sam says, his teeth chattering. 

Dean turns back towards where the guy has gone. He’s standing under a fruit tree, scowling back towards Dean and Sam. Dean sighs. Sam needs help, and quickly. Maybe this guy’s actually willing to help them, or maybe they’ll just have to escape all over again. 

“Okay. Let’s go.” He drapes Sam’s good arm over his shoulder and they hobble across the orchard.

Through the trees, Dean can just about make out buildings in front of them. Stepping back onto the gravel drive, they walk along until the orchard trees give way to a view that makes Dean gasp, which in turn makes Sam pick his head up to gaze around them. The edge of the orchard stands at the top of a gentle slope of open grass, below which are a series of ordered, planted rows, and beyond that, a house. 

Dean can't help but watch their mysterious new maybe-friend as he crunches down the slope. He holds the gun loosely in the crook of his elbow, like an afterthought. His jeans and jacket over a navy shirt are clean, but shabby, and his dark hair curls slightly long at the back of his neck. He trudges along the driveway some way in front of them, turning briefly now and then to wait for Dean and Sam to catch up. 

It's not like they've run into a lot of survivors on their trek across the country—in fact, they've actively avoided anyone who looked vaguely human, Croat or not. This guy has managed to survive up here for at least two years, so he's either very reclusive, or he's about to add them to his meat locker. Perhaps both.

Sam's breathing is labored, and when Dean looks at him, the gray pallor to his face gives away how much pain he's in. Dean speaks softly as they stumble along. “I dunno what this guy's deal is, but we're only staying long enough to get you back on your feet, okay?” 

Sam nods, the barest movement of his head. 

Dean breathes through the tightness in his chest as he looks away across what he initially thought were rows of vegetables, but now just look pretty overgrown. Beyond them, the house sits at the end of the driveway—a low-set, early twenty-first-century house, the structure an artistic mix of faded wood, concrete and steel-framed windows. The house wraps around two sides of a wide turning area, two large garage doors closed in front of them. The impressive front door is off to the right, but the strange guy leads them instead down the left side of the house on a brick-paved path. 

By the time they reach a back door, Sam is panting heavily and putting nearly all of his weight on Dean. The guy opens the door and leads them into what looks like a small apartment, with an open living area and kitchen to the left and a couple of doorways on the right. 

The guy indicates one of the doors. “In there. You can drink the water in the kitchen, although it might take a little while to come through. It's been a long time since this annexe was used last.” The guy waits while Dean helps Sam to lie down on a large bed, his boots dangling off the end. Sam just sort of flops down, his breathing still labored and his skin with an unhealthy pallor to it. 

Dean tears his gaze away from his brother when the guy says, “Stay here with him. I’m just going to get my medical supplies.”

Dean says, “Thank you, uh—” and stops, not remembering whether Mr. Mysterious had told them his name. 

“Castiel.” The guy says, his gaze as inscrutable as ever. “I’m Castiel.” 

Castiel shakes his head as he walks quickly down the hall. What the hell is he thinking, bringing these people inside like this? He should have sent them on their way, and shot them if they'd refused. 

But one is hurt, badly by the looks. And they're both harried and hungry. 

_The farm can support a lot of people, Cas. We could help so many!_ His sister's words had been well-intended, and he'll honor them and help these people for now, but he can't help feeling that his space is being invaded. 

He doesn't want these men here. 

The medical supplies have their own shelf in the pantry, and he grabs one of the empty baskets and loads it up with antiseptic and gauzes. He's sure the guy would benefit from intravenous antibiotics and saline, but he really doesn't trust the equipment his parents stashed in here. He'll have to make do with the sealed syringes and water—maybe electrolytes, if he can find them. He digs through the supplies, making a mental note to reorganize them at some point, and loads up one of the vegetable baskets with a few items that might help. 

He’s got to get the tall one back upright, that’s all. Then they’ll have to go. 

Back in the annexe, the other guy has brought the injured one water and seems to have managed to get him to drink. That’s a good start, but the wound had looked bad from the little he’d seen earlier. 

Sitting on the bed beside him, Castiel looks him over again before touching. If these guys really aren’t infected with Croatoan, how’d they get in such bad shape? He can’t see any evidence of the black veining that the victims he'd seen in the city had, so that’s a good start.

The other guy—Dean, he’d said his name was, right?—shifts impatiently. “What’re you waiting for? C’mon, I can help.” 

He leans in and starts unbuttoning the tall guy’s plaid shirt to reveal a grey t-shirt underneath, and Castiel helps Dean to pull him up so they can remove them. 

Castiel can’t help but wrinkle his nose at the stink that’s coming off both of them—they’ve obviously been out in the desert a few days at least, and the dust from the High Sierra has painted them both with grime. Dean tries to sit back down beside his brother, but Castiel nudges him out of the way. “Let me. Why don’t you go get cleaned up? You smell like a Croat’s armpit.”

“Nice,” Dean snaps, but moves back. 

Castiel looks the wound over as he unwraps the loosened bandage—which has obviously been made from a torn-up dirty t-shirt. He drops it beside the bed in distaste, and goes back to the cut—a few inches long in the fleshy part of his arm, just below his shoulder. It’s deep, but doesn’t look like the muscle is cut, at least from what he can tell when he prods at the edge of it. More worrying is the red, puffy edges and red streaks across his shoulder. And he’s sure the guy’s temperature must be spiking way too high to be safe. That, at least, indicates an infection rather than Croatoan. 

Castiel glances back over his shoulder to see Dean hovering behind him, looking worried. “Go on, the shower has hot water.” He gestures towards the bathroom. “I’ll take care of this.” 

Dean hesitates, then mutters, “I don’t have any clean clothes to change into.” 

Castiel nods. “There are some clothes in the closet there. I’m not sure I’ll have anything to fit your brother, but there should be something that’ll fit you.”

“Thank you,” Dean says, moving over to the closet. “I think Sam has more clothes in his pack than I do. He’ll be okay.” 

_Sam_ , that’s his name. Castiel gets up to fill a bowl with warm water in the kitchenette, and by the time he’s back with Sam, Dean is still standing near the bed, watching Sam with a deep crease between his brows. When Castiel regards him with one eyebrow raised, Dean says, “I’d rather stay with him until you’re done.” 

Castiel shrugs. He guesses he wouldn’t trust him in this situation either. 

He pours some peroxide solution into the warm water and cleans Sam’s arm as gently as he can. Sam shifts uncomfortably in the bed, but mostly seems to be out of it—Castiel hopes he’s not about to start flailing around, because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to hold the guy down, even with Dean’s help. His brother just stands with his back against the closet and watches as Castiel spreads anti-bacterial cream around the cut, then wraps it again tightly with a real bandage. 

“You some kind of doctor?” Dean asks, loud in the silent room. 

Castiel glances at him as he prepares the antibiotic syringe. “No, but I have a little first aid training.” 

Dean moves forward, his eyes wide as he takes in the syringe. “That’s more than first aid, dude. What _is_ that?”

Castiel pauses. “Antibiotics. I’m afraid I don’t have the equipment to help if your brother already has sepsis, but hopefully this will help prevent the infection from spreading. Okay?”

He waits until Dean gives a small nod, then wipes Sam’s other arm with the peroxide solution and injects the clear fluid into the meat of his shoulder.

As he goes, he tries to reassure Dean. Last thing he needs is the guy freaking out in here while he’s got sharps nearby. “I don’t have many of these, so hopefully your brother will be back on his feet soon and can take some antibiotic capsules instead. Then you can be on your way."

Dean gives an amused huff, but when Castiel turns to look at him, he merely nods grimly. 

Castiel tucks the end of the bandage under itself and picks up the warm water and basket of supplies. "I'll get him something for the fever," he says to Dean as he's heading for the door, stopping near where Dean is standing, "but I don't have much of that, either. Do you think you could get him to drink some tea?" 

Dean looks incredulous, but nods slightly. "I mean, I can try? He's not really a…tea drinker."

"It's herbal tea—should help with the pain, and goes down a little easier than Gatorade on an empty stomach."

He heads for the door again and distinctly hears Dean's stomach rumble. Who knows how long it’s been since either of them have eaten more than a bite of under-ripe apple? 

"And I'll bring something to eat," he adds. 

He can't help the swell of pleasure he gets when Dean says, "Thanks, man. We owe you."


	2. Chapter 2

Dean sits beside Sam on the bed, watching his brother sleeping fitfully. The fever is still raging—he's not sweating but feels burning hot to the back of Dean's hand. He tries to coax Sam to drink some more water but only succeeds in getting most of it down his bare chest and neck. 

He unbuckles the sheath around his thigh, sliding the knife free for a moment to check the edge survived the fall onto the ground earlier, but stares at the knife, not really seeing it.

The panic rises again, clawing at Dean's throat. How could he have let this happen? He was supposed to be getting Sam away to safety—a clean getaway across the prairie and the mountains, and on towards California. Instead, they've been chased every step of the way, and now a potentially life-threatening injury. If they hadn't run across this place, and if Castiel hadn't been willing to… 

Dean glances up quickly as Castiel walks back into the room as if summoned, balancing a teapot, a mug, and a steaming bowl of something on a tray. 

"Here," he says, holding the tray towards Dean. "Vegetable soup I made yesterday." 

Dean places the re-sheathed knife and strap on the ground beside him, then takes the bowl and the spoon beside it, marveling at the spicy smell. "Thanks. What's in that?" he adds, eyeing the teapot. 

"It's for the fever." Castiel puts the tray down on the nightstand and pours hot water into the cup, stirring it with another spoon. 

"Tea's gonna help with a fever?" Dean asks, skeptical. He hadn't drunk a lot of hot tea over his twenty-six years—only the sweet tea that he’s been missing since they left Lawrence. 

Castiel passes him the cup, which is warm to the touch, but not burning. "White willow bark and yarrow, and lemon and honey for flavor. It should help until he can swallow tablets."

Dean sniffs the tea and recoils at the weird odor. "He's never gonna drink this."

Castiel's brow furrows in a frown. "If you say so. Just trying to help your friend feel better." He steps back from the bed and heads for the door. 

Oops, the guy is clearly upset—Dean hadn't meant to offend him. Dean calls out, "Hey sorry, man. Thanks for the tea. I'll try to get it in him."

Castiel glances back with a small nod, then heads back into the rest of the house. 

Dean shakes his head as he looks back down at the tea. Man, that guy is weird. He wonders if anyone else lives in this big house, or if he's all alone. This room certainly doesn't look lived in, at least. 

He sips at the cup and nearly spits it out again—god, that's disgusting! But if it's gonna help Sam, he guesses it's worth a shot. 

He carefully lifts Sam's head, murmuring, "Sammy? Here, have a drink. This'll help you. There you go." Sam stirs a little and takes a sip, then chokes a little, coughing weakly. 

"Yeah, I know, don't taste too good, does it?" Dean adds, grimacing. "Come on, it's medicine, it's gonna help."

He manages to coax Sam into choking down most of the cup of tea, then follows up with some more water to get rid of the taste. Then he turns to the soup. 

He eyes the chunks of vegetable in the bowl with distaste. A few years back, he wouldn’t be seen dead touching a vegetable. But since the Croatoan, food has gradually become more scarce, and he’s learned to never refuse an offer of food, no matter how much he might dislike it. 

His first mouthful is slow and unsure, but the second and the following spoonfuls disappear in a matter of a few minutes. The broth is warm and salty, and whatever vegetables are in there taste heavenly after days on the road. 

Dean replaces the bowl on the tray, thinking he should probably see about that shower Castiel mentioned now that Sam’s breathing seems to have evened out a little. He leans down to unlace his boots and nearly keels over from the smell when he removes them, balling up his dirty socks to stuff back into them. He lies back, resting against the bed’s headboard for just a few moments—he’s so very tired. It’s been a long, hot journey across the desert, and he’s pretty sure that as soon as Sam is vertical again, Castiel will kick them out to keep trudging on, ever westwards. He closes his eyes, enjoying the comfort while he can.

Castiel steps into his work boots and grabs his straw hat as he heads out. He's not entirely comfortable leaving strangers inside his house, but nature waits for no man, and he needs to get the fall crop in. 

The shed is dark, but not too baking hot when he opens the sliding door, although the smell of compost and lime still hits him. Not long ago he'd found, after a year of wondering why the place had been like an oven all summer, that the ventilation system had been stuffed full of leaves. Cleaning it out has made so much difference to the air flow in the timber-framed and iron-clad structure this year that he's been looking forward to getting out into the garden instead of dreading it. Still, coming in here, with its quiet calm and the smell of the garden, brings back memories that grab something in his chest and _squeeze_. 

The spinach seeds that his mother carefully harvested are nearly gone, but he has another batch from earlier this season that he's decided to plant. Airtight containers are lined up on a shelf above a workbench, his mother's delicate handwriting on the white labels—carrots, kale, Roma tomato, arugula. 

Castiel's eyes travel along the row until the labels blur and he has to rest his hands on the bench in front of him and duck his head as tears threaten to spill over. 

Seeing people again, actual living people, is jarring. The last living person here had been his parents’ neighbor, Frank, and he hasn't been back in what? Months. Maybe even a year? And Castiel certainly isn't going up there. 

The fact that these brothers have been out there, battered but living, means there's hope. Hope Castiel has nearly abandoned since coming here. 

And at the same time, the longing hits him like a truck. He wants his mom. And his dad, and Anna, and even Gabriel, although he hadn't seen him for years even before the Croatoan. The physical ache in his chest nearly makes him cry out, but he swallows it all down and wipes angrily at his eyes. 

These strangers are just passing, he knows. They're on their way to _somewhere_ , but perhaps they can give him some news about the outside world he's been craving. 

He needs to get this planting done. Then he needs to get the taller one— _Sam_ —better so the strangers can go on their way and let him go back to being left alone. 

He frowns as he packs a few of the seed containers into a bucket, and heads back out towards the vegetable garden. 

When Dean comes to, it takes him a while to work out where he is. A room with a bed…oh, an orchard, a shotgun…Castiel. Their mysterious host is nowhere to be seen, although the tray on which he'd brought the food and tea is now missing from the nightstand. 

The guy is certainly interesting, though. He'd acted so hostile when he'd found them in his orchard, then he'd dressed Sam's wound like a goddamn pro, gentle and thorough. And Sam…

Dean sits up with a start when he realizes Sam is lying almost too still and quiet beside him, but when he sees Sam's chest rise and fall slowly, he breathes out himself in relief. Sam's brow is sweaty, but cooler to the touch. He'll have to find Sam's pack to see what cleaner clothes he has stashed. 

Speaking of which…he pulls his own shirt back for a whiff, and damn, Castiel had been right. He'd better see about that shower himself before he worries about getting Sam clean. 

The shower clunks and whines when he pulls the mixer, and the first trickle of water looks a little rusty brown like the faucet in the kitchenette had, but soon clears and warms to a temperature that Dean hasn't felt in weeks. The pressure isn't great, but with hot water and some sweet-smelling soap to use, he puts his head under the stream and feels as though his worries are melting away, washing down the drain with the desert dust. 

He scrubs every inch of his skin until he remembers that this water is most likely coming from a tank, and shuts it off again quickly. The towel hanging in the bathroom smells a little dusty—but he guesses Castiel doesn't get many guests these days. He digs around in his pack and finds his shaving kit as well, removing the scruff from several days on the run.

By the time he’s done, he feels like a new man. He runs his hand over his now-smooth chin, and tries to spike up his hair a bit. His hair’s getting a bit long, but he gives himself a shrug in the mirror and turns to find the jeans and t-shirt that he'd picked out from Castiel's closet.

Sam's gear is all pretty rank, so after wiping Sam's sweaty face carefully with a washcloth he found in the bathroom, he packs all their dirty clothes in his backpack and heads out of the bedroom to see if he can find Castiel. 

He tries a couple of doors before he finds one that leads to a long hallway, a solid wall on the right side and long windows along the left. The polished hardwood floor creaks slightly as he pads along barefoot, but he stops suddenly when he gets a look out past a tree that grows next to the house. 

The view is expansive. The house must stand close to the edge of a cliff here, because the ground seems to disappear not far away from the building, giving way to the barren High Sierra below. Dean shields his eyes from the bright sun as he makes out more mountains in the distance. 

At the other end of the hallway, the main ground floor of the house opens out—a high-ceilinged living room here, with a leather settee and large stone fireplace. The room opens onto a wide wooden porch outside, and other doors lead to what looks like a kitchen and other rooms on the far side.

"Hello? Castiel?" he calls, walking across the room and stopping for a moment to sink his toes into a plush rug lying on the floor in front of the couch. The interior of the house is completely silent, save for a ticking sound Dean identifies as a large clock, hanging on the wall above the fireplace. Does Castiel live here all alone after all? The living area looks as tidy as a magazine, everything in its place. 

A wide entryway between the rooms leads to the kitchen, and he finds an empty saucepan and a few dirty bowls on the bench, left there from lunch. Castiel’s either upstairs, or outside, and since it’s still midafternoon chances are he’s outside.

Dean passes a set of wooden stairs leading upwards to the second floor, but he hears no movement up there so he continues towards a small room at the end of the hall. It’s some kind of mudroom, Dean realizes as he eyes the rows of shoes and boots lined up on a rack. Under the boots he finds a pair of brown flip flops which more or less fit him, then, dropping his pack just inside the door, he opens it and steps outside. 

The warm afternoon sun casts a golden light over the farm—from the orchard trees higher on the slope, to the taller trees behind a large secondary building to Dean's right, beyond which he can see an open, grassy field. In front of him lies the expansive vegetable garden, and along one of the rows he can see a straw hat bobbing up and down. 

Cas is on his hands and knees, digging in the soil with a trowel held in his gloved hands. He sprinkles a line of seeds into the trench before covering it up and patting it down. 

As Dean approaches, his steps crunching up the crushed gravel path beside the gardens, Castiel looks up. His eyes widen almost comically, and Dean can't help the sunny grin that comes to his face. Poor guy really isn't used to having people around. 

Castiel's eyes travel down Dean's body then up again, and Dean's cheeks warm as he realizes he must be wearing Cas' clothes. 

He clears his throat. "Hey, Cas."

Castiel's eyes drop again, like he catches himself staring. He gets back to work, stabbing the trowel into the soil. 

"You found the shower, then?" he asks, his voice emotionless.

"Yep," Dean says, putting his hands in his pockets as he stands at the end of the row. "Feel like a million bucks. Thanks for the clothes."

Castiel merely nods, frowning down at the garden. After a little more digging, he adds, "How's your brother?" 

"Sleeping. Whatever you gave him knocked him right out, so thanks."

Castiel nods again, muttering, "Good." The trowel crunches into the soil as he creates another furrow. 

Okay, normally, Dean might take a hint and clear out if someone doesn't want to talk, but it's been a few weeks since he's spoken to anyone other than his brother, so he ain't giving up that easy. 

"Whatcha planting?" he asks, stepping forward over the garden edging into the row near where Castiel kneels. 

Castiel doesn't even look up, just points to the rows in front of him. "Spinach, broccoli, carrots."

Dean watches for a few moments as Castiel resumes his work, digging a trough into the soil and carefully dropping the seeds into it from a jar by his knee. 

"You grow all your own food?" Dean says, and it isn't until Castiel turns a lifted eyebrow on him that he realizes what he's just said. "I mean, of course you do. Where else would you…" He trails off, embarrassed.

"I'm lucky to have the capability to grow food, yes. And I store what I can," Castiel says, covering the seeds up and pressing the soil down over them. 

Dean looks around the farm again. The green is still so vibrant to his eyes after days in the unrelenting brown of the desert. 

"So what, you've got the apple trees up there," he gestures up the slope to the orchard, "vegetables here. What's over there?" he asks, looking over towards the far side of the vegetable garden. 

Castiel gets to his feet and stretches his back, making Dean bite his lip as he appreciates the guy’s long, lean form, his dark hair curling out from under the tattered straw hat. Another time, another place, this guy might be pressing all of Dean's tall, dark and handsome buttons, but it's probably not appropriate while he's a guest in his house. 

Probably.

Castiel casts him a nonchalant look, but Dean can see how tense he still is in the lines of his shoulders, his eyes betraying his wariness. How's someone even get eyes that blue, anyway? "Give me a couple minutes to water these in and I'll show you, if you like."

"Yeah, thanks, man!" Dean says, smiling again. His heart makes a weird little leap as Castiel returns the grin, barely a quirk of his lips, but there all the same. 

Dean steps back as Castiel comes towards him. Stepping past Dean and over the edge of the garden, Castiel fetches a long rubber hose from alongside the path. Dean follows him along until they reach the other end and Castiel stops to turn a metal lever. A long, rectangular pond is at the end of the vegetable garden, filled with muddy water. As Castiel walks back towards where he's just planted, water begins to flow through the hose—not quickly as the pressurised water would have back home in Lawrence, but gently trickling out. 

As Castiel waters in his seeds, Dean realizes he doesn't recognize most of the vegetables already growing—they never had a garden like this as kids, and once he was a teenager the idea of eating anything green was as foreign as personal hygiene. 

Since Croatoan, though, he and Sam have eaten whatever they can get. For a while, that consisted of whatever they could scrounge from abandoned houses after their own supplies and those Bobby had stashed had run out, and then once they’d moved into the Fort, whatever had been cooked for the group there. 

This farm is what the Fort should have been like—could have been, if Donna and Jody had been able to continue to develop it. Before it all went south. Before Azazel arrived. He shivers despite the sun warming his back.

A sharp squeak splits the still air as Cas turns the faucet off again, startling Dean out of his thoughts. 

Castiel approaches him. “You okay?” he asks, a slight frown about his face.

He shrugs, smiling again. "I’m fine. Lead on," he says.

Castiel begins walking along the path beside the pond, along the top edge of the vegetable garden, Dean following along behind. “There’s not much to know. I grow vegetables most of the year. The fruit from the orchard won’t ripen for a month or so, but when it does I’ll have rotten apples everywhere.”

“Rotten ones?” Dean wonders, stepping over the small hedging plants at the other end of the garden, back onto the driveway. Across the drive, a seven, maybe eight-foot brick wall stands, running down towards the house, uneven and crumbling at the top. 

“There’s way more than I could ever eat myself,” Castiel says, his steps crunching across the gravel until he comes to a stop on the other side. “They were once sent down to the market in town, but obviously not anymore.”

“Obviously,” Dean agrees. So this guy does live alone. He looks after this huge farm all by himself? Had he come to live here after the previous residents had disappeared? 

“Same with this area, really. This is what my mother liked to call her ‘food forest’, but it’s mostly overgrown now. There’s only so much I can do.”

His mother? Not a squatter, then. Dean cleared his throat, attempting to not sound as curious as he feels. “Your mom, huh?”

“Yes,” Castiel says somewhat wistfully, and walks into the bushes. 

Dean stares after him, the branches swaying where Castiel pushed past them. Was he supposed to go after him? He waits for a few moments to see if he reappears, but when he doesn’t, Dean calls tentatively, “Uh, Castiel?” 

A rustling in the bushes near him draws his attention, then he nearly jumps out of his skin when something bursts out of the undergrowth, running straight at him. It dodges at the last second and Dean turns to watch a terrified chicken running off up the driveway. 

A second crash in the bushes has Dean cursing, but this time, it’s the goat that appears. It stares at Dean, its unnerving eyes wide and vacant. 

Should he try to go around it? He edges to the side, but the goat follows him, its stare like ice. 

Dean is about to snap and charge at the goat again, when the bushes rustle again and Castiel ducks back under the branches. “Dean? You coming? Oh…” He pauses when he sees the goat. “I see you’ve met Meg.”

“Meg?” Dean asks, incredulous. Who the fuck names their goat? And such a people-sounding name, too?

“Uh, yeah. She can be a little…intense. Go on, Meg. Get away. He’s a friend.” He attempts to shoo Meg the goat away, but she stands still as a rock, staring at Dean. 

Dean stares right back, wondering if this new so-called friend of his is likely to murder him in his sleep.

Cas eventually clears his throat, standing in front of her and ushering Dean under the low-hanging branch that he’d disappeared under before. Dean stumbles forward. The goat doesn’t follow. 

Castiel ducks back under the low branch after Dean, thinking that he really should get out the shears and do a bit of pruning, but when he hardly ever comes here, what would be the point? 

He hadn't intended to bring Dean in here, but as they'd walked over to the forest, he'd found he wanted to show it off. Sure, there's still a chance that Dean and his brother might kill him and take all this for themselves, but when Dean had walked out of the house wearing Castiel’s clothes and that brilliant smile, he'd forgotten all about the possibility of murder. 

Until now. He's just brought the guy to one of his favorite places on the farm, secluded, quiet. He turns towards Dean apprehensively, but relaxes when he sees the open surprise and delight on his face. 

Castiel looks around at his mother's forest, surrounded on two and a half sides by crumbling brick walls. There had once been a house here, Castiel had been told—a small brick farmhouse. After the new house had been built, his mother and father had removed the concrete foundations from the center of the ruin. The walls make an excellent block for the chill winds of winter, and his mother had given him her faded copy of _The Secret Garden_ , then filled the space with fruit trees and herbs. 

Now that it's overgrown and wild, Castiel feels the resemblance more than ever, and the longing for his family that he's been trying to suppress ever since he was in the shed comes rushing back. He sucks in a shaky breath to try to calm himself. 

A touch to his elbow makes him jump, and he looks around to see Dean's concerned face way closer than it had been. 

"Hey, you okay? You looked like you were about to pass out." Dean smiles gently, and Castiel breathes again. 

"I'm fine." He steps away from Dean, following the path a little way until it’s blocked by a thick blackberry vine. He has no idea how these got in—maybe over the wall from the cliff edge? In any case, it's grown wild all over everything, and it's covered in berries which are going to make it extra-messy to remove. 

"I'm sorry, this is more overgrown than I thought. There are fruit trees and herbs under all this—I'll have to come back here another day and cut it all back."

He turns and hurries back to the end of the wall, away from the overgrown garden and its ghosts, but when he glances back, Dean is still standing there, gazing around at the garden. 

"Hey, Cas?" he asks, and Castiel’s heart constricts at the nickname he hasn't heard for two years. "These are blackberries, right? Okay if I pick some?" 

Castiel blinks at him. His only thought had been to get rid of the choking vines, but the bramble was full of ripe berries. The thought of eating them hadn't entered his mind. 

"Of course," he says. "I could get you something to collect them in, if you'd like. There should be a bucket or two around here somewhere. Out here, come on." 

He leaves the garden and turns to continue down the hill towards the end of the wall closest to the cliff. There's a back door here into the hen houses, and beyond that, his beehives. 

Dean has followed him along the wall, and eyes the wooden structure within a gap in the stone wall. 

"Access to the hen house," Castiel explains. "I had to let them out to find their own food, since their feed ran out, but they still lay in here often enough. It's safe for them, I guess." He grabs one of the woven baskets he's been keeping out here from behind one of the hives, mostly for carrying eggs back to the house. Handing it to Dean, he sees the man watching the bees buzzing in and out of the hives. 

Castiel steps towards the nearest one, running a hand along the top of it. 

“My pride and joy, these hives,” he says. “Without my bees, I wouldn’t have a garden. They keep this place alive.” And me, he mentally adds. He’d been so relieved to find the hives healthy and well when he and Anna had arrived. 

When he glances back towards Dean, the man is smiling softly at him. It makes him look younger, as though the weight of whatever he and Sam have been through has been lifted momentarily. It’s like an unexpected major chord, and makes Castiel’s breath catch slightly at how attractive this man actually is. 

Dean surprises Castiel by saying, “It’s all so simple here.”

“Well, I’d hardly call it simple,” Castiel replies with a short huff of laughter. “I still have to plant, water, harvest and store. But I get there.”

Dean nods. “Oh, I didn’t mean...I mean I’m seriously impressed with what you’ve got going on here.” He turns back towards the entrance to the walled garden. “I’m gonna…” He trails off, gesturing off along the wall. 

“Okay,” Castiel says, nodding. “I’ll be in the house if you need anything.”

“Sure. Thanks for the tour.” Dean grins, then heads off, clutching the basket.

Castiel watches him go, wondering how on earth he could let someone who he’d only just met under his skin like this. The guy is gorgeous, sure. He’s certainly friendly, and had politely taken in the farm with his beautiful green eyes. Is Castiel so desperate for the company of other people that he’s willing to latch onto the first person to show any interest in him? 

The answer is almost certainly yes. Yes, he is. But he needs to rein that in—this man isn’t hanging around. He returns to the house, lost in thought.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean walks back inside through the mudroom, the basket of blackberries under one arm. He removes his flip flops and walks through the kitchen, leaving the basket on the kitchen counter. 

The house is quiet again, seemingly undisturbed, and it makes Dean feel uneasy as he walks quietly across the living room and back down the corridor. He glances out the window towards the cliffs again, and sees a figure sitting out there, staring outwards towards the lowering sun. Castiel. His broad-shouldered silhouette is standing close to the edge of the cliff, and Dean can see his hair blowing in a breeze. 

He’d love to get to know the blue-eyed guy a little more, see if he’s as built under those clothes as he seems. He really feels for him, all alone in this house, looking after the farm on his own. He’s dying to ask him more, to learn how he came to be here, what has happened to the rest of his family, but he’s reluctant to bring it up. He’d seen the shadows crossing his face when Dean had asked about his family, and he doesn’t want to disturb the guy after he’s been nice enough to help Sam.

He walks on, into the apartment where he finds Sam still snoring quietly in the bed. Dean can’t say he’s surprised—they’ve both had a difficult journey across the desert, ever since they left the car behind. Sam’s forehead feels a little warm again, though—might have to ask Castiel for some more of that tea. 

Letting him sleep, Dean walks back out to the living area of the apartment, wondering what he should do. He feels like an intruder, snooping around the house when Castiel’s not inside, but it’s way too early to go to sleep.

He can see the sky turning interesting colors through the windows, between the tall bushes that give the apartment privacy—why not head back outside to check it out? He tries the door on the side of the house they came in through earlier today, and it opens easily. Not much point locking doors these days, Dean supposes. 

When Dean walks out from behind the corner of the house, Castiel appears to be sitting on the very edge of the cliff, the blazing sunset laid out before him across the valley. As Dean gets closer, the grass dry under his bare feet, he can see that Castiel is actually sitting on a large, flat rock above the steep slope that leads down to the edge of the cliff. It seems Castiel has showered and changed—his clean t-shirt has a large pair of light-colored printed wings on the back that Dean can only just make out, with the light shining in his eyes.

The sun is low on the horizon now, and as Dean drops down onto the rock near Castiel, his “oof” sounds loud against the calm quietness of the evening. 

Castiel starts in surprise and looks over to him, saying, “Hello, Dean. I didn’t hear you come out.”

Dean grins, lifting one bare foot to rest on the rock as he hugs his knee. “Sam’s still sleeping, but his fever might be back.”

“I can make some more tea,” Castiel says, moving to get up, but Dean stops him with a hand on his arm. 

“Wait, there’s no hurry. It’s not real high, and it’ll be hard for me to get it into him while he’s asleep.”

Castiel relaxes again, and they both turn to look again at the red-streaked sunset clouds. 

Dean wonders whether Castiel spends a lot of time out here, looking out to the valley. While he’s busy trying to work up the courage to ask, Castiel is the one to break the silence. 

“Where are you and Sam headed?” he asks, sounding nonchalant but Dean’s sure he can detect tension in his voice. 

Dean takes in a deep breath of warm evening air before he replies. “Not sure, exactly. Our dad was headed for California, last we heard from him. He’s got friends in San Francisco, so we were heading there.”

Castiel nods. “Still a ways to go then, especially on foot. I have maps, if you need to find your way.”

“Thanks,” Dean says. “We’ll only stay as long as it takes to get Sam back on his feet, then we’ll get out of here.”

When Castiel doesn’t say anything, Dean glances at him to see him looking out towards the sunset grimly. He wonders how long it’s been since Castiel has seen another living person out here in this desolate backwater. He decides to try for the usual way they approach talking to survivors these days.

“You see many Croats around here?”

Cas glances over to him quickly, then looks away. “Not for a while now. I have cameras and heat-detecting sensors set up to give me warning of anyone coming up the road, or across the big field over that side.” He nods across the opposite side of the house. “There used to be a few wandering through, but lately...they’ve dried up.”

Dean is unable to contain his curiosity. “So were you here when it all went down?” 

Cas glances at Dean again in surprise, and Dean wonders all over again how long it’s been since Cas spoke to anyone. He hesitates, then looks back out over the valley. “No, I was in Illinois at the start, but came to California before the flights stopped. We were lucky, in a way—we got out of the city before the virus really took hold, but had to battle our way through from Sacramento. This place...it’s my parents’ house. They always meant it to be a haven, an escape, but when we got here, they...weren’t around.” Cas’ voice is rough.

He’d mentioned a “we”, and Dean can’t help wondering if there is someone else hiding around the place. He feels terrible for rubbing salt into obviously still somewhat fresh wounds, but he asks anyway, “Who did you come with?”

“My sister, Anna. She—” Castiel takes a breath and begins again. “She didn’t make it.”

Dean nods, turning back to the view. The sun has disappeared behind the horizon now, casting the clouds in streaks of red and orange. Castiel has been alone here all this time? No wonder he was so wary at first. He’s been trying to reassure Cas that he and Sam are not here to disturb his peace since they arrived, and it seems that might be paying off—Cas doesn’t appear averse to having company. 

He’s dying to ask about his sister, but decides he’d better let Cas take the lead on that story. “Sorry to hear that,” he says instead.

Cas nods, and they quietly watch the color drain from the clouds. Cas takes a deep breath, and asks, “How about you? Where have you traveled from? You look like you’ve been on foot for a while?”

Dean glances at Cas to see nothing but open curiosity on his face. How much should he reveal? He still doesn’t know Castiel at all, not really. He can’t risk Sam, just in case Azazel does follow them here. He clears his throat, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling that lying to the guy gives him. 

“We’re from Kansas, actually. Lawrence, although Sam had just finished up his undergrad out here at Stanford and was home on vacation when shit went sideways. Lawrence was pretty messy.” Dean shakes his head as he remembers the chaos of those early days. The virus had been slow to spread to start with, but it didn’t take long before scientists were advising people to wash their hands and stay home as much as they could. 

As more cases started appearing, people began to panic-buy food, medicine, and toilet paper, of all things, but it took the infected starting to kill people, often members of their own family, for people to really start panicking. The Croats would wander around, infecting others, or join up in groups with other Croats and rampage through shopping centers. The worst part was that the infected weren’t just mindless zombies, they were almost the same as they’d always been, just angry and violent versions of themselves. Worst of all, once the virus took hold, there was method to their madness—spread the infection, or murder. Both Dean and Sam had to fight to survive—everyone had to.

Dean shakes his head, then glances at Castiel again to see him watching him again, although he glances away back out to the view when he sees Dean looking. He continues, “We—Sam, me, and our Uncle Bobby—moved into a commune with some survivors we found just outside of town—kind of a fortified community, I guess. It was cozy at first, but we were doing okay.” Something clenches in his chest at speaking Bobby’s name, at the memory of the others they had to leave behind there. Jody, Donna, Missouri…Cassie... 

He takes a breath. “But the virus got in. We ran.” He glances at Castiel again, this time letting his gaze linger as he speaks. “Found a truck, drove for some of the way. Thank God we made it over the mountains before our gas ran out, but it did, in the middle of nowhere. Been heading roughly downhill and west ever since."

Cas nods. "And the Croats who injured Sam?" 

Dean winces. His dumb little brother might've saved his god damned life, but nearly lost his own in the process. "We ran into them near a town about a week ago. Maybe less, it's hard to remember, now." He rubs at his forehead fitfully. It's been a rough…well, a rough few months. "They surprised us, enough that we ran rather than try to fight. Sam jumped in front of one to keep it from jumping me, and it slammed him into some broken glass. I shot it, and we got away from the others."

It’s close enough to the truth to sound plausible, he hopes. Cas watches him, his expression open and he sounds impressed when he says, “Sam’s lucky to have you supporting him. I’m surprised you made it all the way here, though. I’ll admit, I hoped you might tell me that things out there were getting better. I haven’t had outside news in...a long time.”

Dean frowns, shrugs. “Getting better than what? The communication networks are still out. You’re the first survivor we’ve seen in a week, there are barely any Croats around here. I have no idea what we’re heading into when we get closer to the coast, because we hadn’t heard anything from outside the compound for months before…” He trails off, thinking of Azazel, of his half-truths and outright lies. “Before we had to run.”

The light has left the streaked clouds now, and the sky between them has sunk into a deep, rich blue. A cool breeze blows up the cliff, ruffling Dean’s hair and making him shiver a little, despite the sun’s warmth lingering in the rock beneath him. 

Cas sighs. “That’s what I was afraid of.” He looks back out at the valley, devastation, maybe despair across his face in the fading light. 

Dean knows the feeling all too well. He's been keeping it at bay while he and Sam have been running—he knew if he let it out, he might give up on the spot, and that wasn't—isn’t—an option. 

But now, the enormity of what they're trying to do here, what they may have to face as they get closer to the coast and the cities? 

It's terrifying. He's aware of his heart pounding away, his teeth clenching. He has to find somewhere safe, though. He has to get to Dad. 

"Dean?" A tentative voice to his right pulls him up from his anxious thoughts. Cas has leaned a little closer, concern in his eyes. God, they’re beautiful eyes. And the way his hair curls so softly around his ears, Dean finds himself wanting to reach up and touch it. 

But Castiel speaks again. "You're both welcome here. I have plenty of food—you saw my gardens. You're welcome to stay as long as you need to."

Dean smiles, then reaches out to squeeze Cas’ forearm briefly. “Thank you. We appreciate that.” He watches as Cas’ lips part, as though he’s drawing in a silent gasp at Dean’s touch. How long has it been…? “As soon as Sam’s back on his feet we’ll get out of your way, though.”

The frown is all in Castiel’s eyes, but it’s there as he pulls back from Dean, his nod short. “Very well.” He unfolds himself, turning away from the valley towards the house. “Come on, let’s go see if we can find something to eat."

Dean doesn’t miss the way Cas rubs at his arm as he climbs up onto the rock and steps back onto the grassy slope. 

Castiel fetches mushrooms and carrots and uses some of his precious stored garlic to cook up a soupy stew. 

If Dean and Sam are staying for long he might be able to get some meat out of his cold stores, but for now, the mushroom crop has been plentiful lately in the dark, cool basement, and the hens have been laying in their house again so the eggs are easy to find. 

Dean had taken some freshly brewed fever tea to Sam again, and he returns with the half-full pot and cup just as Cas is spooning the stew into a couple of bowls for them. 

“Is Sam awake? Do you think he would eat something?” he asks, holding up a third bowl. 

Dean places the teapot on the counter, shaking his head. “Nah, poor kid is wiped out. He sorta came to long enough for me to get the tea in him, but said he just wanted to sleep some more.”

Castiel picks up the bowls and carries them to the table at the other end of the room, Dean following him. Castiel glances back at him, realizing that he might want to go back to Sam. 

“Did you, um…want to eat here? Or—”

“It's fine, Cas. He's sleeping. Or would you rather I let you alone now? You've shown me around all day, I should probably—”

“No,” Castiel says quickly, then feels his face warming with his embarrassment. “I mean, you're not intruding. You're welcome to join me.”

Dean grins, taking the spoon that Cas offers him. “Thanks,” he says, and they sit and eat in silence for a few moments, blowing on the stew to cool it down. 

The only sound is the clinking of their spoons, and the ticking of the clock on the mantle. The incessant ticking that has driven Castiel almost mad more times than he can count, but that he can't bring himself to silence. The quiet stretches out, and Castiel tries to think of something to ask that won't sound like prying. _Tick, tick, tick_ … 

“This is really good,” Dean says between mouthfuls, making Castiel jump slightly. 

The praise makes him smile, and something warm glows in his chest again.

“So this house…you said it was your parents’? Did you live here as a kid, then?” Dean spoke as he ate the last of the stew, scraping the bowl. 

Castiel swallowed his mouthful, shaking his head. “We lived in the city, down in Sacramento. My parents owned this place as a holiday home, I guess, although someone else lived here and ran the farm part for many years. We used to come here for vacations, sometimes weekends.”

Dean nods along, then pushes his empty bowl forward a little and leans back in his chair, listening. The action looks so domestic, so… _natural_ , that Castiel pauses, unable to speak for a moment. He's missed this. Just talking to someone—anyone. God, he's pathetic. 

When Dean raises one eyebrow, waiting for him to continue, he drops his eyes back to the worn china bowl in front of him, trying to re-board his train of thought. 

“They moved up here full time when I was sixteen. Anna was a few years older, and already had an apartment in the city so I just moved in with her.”

“Your sister?” Dean asks, curiosity bright in his eyes.

Castiel shies away from that topic, not ready to touch Anna's story. “Yes, until I was accepted to University of Illinois and moved there. We still used to come here on vacations to see Mom and Dad.” He can't help the warm glow, tinged with pain when remembering those days, his dad's pride at each new thing he'd installed and got working on the farm, fixing things that weren’t working, helping his mother in the garden, their joy at the first orchard crop… 

“It's an awesome set-up,” Dean says. 

Castiel is surprised out of his memories, and he glances at Dean. His warm eyes, surprisingly green. Freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, and a slight smile on his lips…lips he’d like to… 

No, what is he doing? Having fantasies about a guest in his house? One who’ll be gone in a few days, never to be seen again? The idea horrifies Castiel, yet at the same time, entices him. 

Dean’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip and the motion sends a bolt of something straight down Castiel’s spine, electrifying him. At the same time, he realizes he’s been staring for longer than just a few moments. He glances away, mortified. What were they talking about? Oh, the farm. 

“Yes, uh, yes…it's great. But it's a lot. For one person, I mean. Things are starting to break that I don't know how to fix, and I'm running out of some staples that I'll miss, but overall, it's been good to me. I have a to-do list a mile long but it's not like I'm busy otherwise, so…” He shrugs, aware that he's rambling. 

When he glances at Dean, he seems amused. 

“Of course it is. It's a big place, you got a lotta…plants here. And you're alone, but you took us in. Anything I can do to say thank you?”

Castiel takes in Dean’s smile, lost in the way his eyes seem to light up. Dean really shouldn’t be thanking him, when it’s been so easy to let him stay. “Oh no, you don't need to—” 

“Sure, I'm just sitting around for a couple of days while Sam's out of action, so tell me what I can do.”

Castiel goes through a few options in his head. there's plenty to do in the orchard, but that would take days, and probably not worth starting. The vegetable garden is in control for now, although there are probably more fall crops he could put in. If Dean and Sam were staying longer, he'd clear the weeds from more of it and plant up a lot more. But, he reminds himself, they’ll be leaving soon, and it will be just him again.

The idea leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

“I’ll…I’ll have to think about it. But thank you.”

Dean snaps his fingers, an excited grin on his face. “I’ll clear the brambles from your forest place, with the walls. You got like a machete or something?”

“Well, yeah. There are tools in the shed, but—”

“Awesome. I'll get started tomorrow. Least I can do.” He beams, and Castiel's heart does a funny little flip in his chest. “Speaking of,” Dean continues, grabbing the empty bowls and getting to his feet, “I’m getting those berries.”

They sit and eat until their fingers and lips are stained purple, and trade stories of what life was like before the virus…and both seem to want to avoid what came after. 

Castiel gets up and brings one of his father's precious bottles of scotch back to the table. There aren't many of them left, but he hasn't had any for some months now, since he decided not to drink himself into the grave. 

He doesn’t miss the way Dean’s eyes light up when he sees the bottle. “Oh, hell yes. You know how to treat a guy.”

Castiel tries to hide the blush he can feel on his cheeks as he pours. 

As they nurse glasses, Castiel tries to stop himself from staring at the _actual person_ in his house. Now that the drama of their arrival has died down a little, he allows the surprise at seeing another living, uninfected person settle into his bones. It's incredible. 

Castiel can't recall a time when he'd just sat and talked with someone like this, not even when it was just him and Anna here. Maybe long ago, with his friends in Pontiac. Maybe with Bartholomew.

Dean has only been here a few hours, but it feels like a fresh breeze has blown through the house. Castiel has been just surviving, static, waiting for such a long time. But now, he's awake, and every fibre of him feels like it's sparking. 

“What was it like?” Castiel asks. “The community you lived in, in Lawrence? You said it was fortified.”

“Ah, yeah,” Dean says after swallowing his mouthful. He places the empty glass on the table, running his fingers around the rim of the glass in a way that makes something shiver within Castiel. “It used to be a school, before. Big, old buildings with plenty of rooms and an industrial kitchen. Defensible against Croats or unfriendlies, especially with the big iron walls we put up around the place.”

He hesitates before continuing, and Castiel wonders if he should be pushing Dean for this story. He’s been curious about it ever since Dean had mentioned it—he’d often wondered how survivors might be getting by away from his little slice of solitude.

Dean takes a breath and continues, “When we joined them, they were still stockpiling, had plenty of food. The power was still running from solar cells on the roof, and Donna—she was sort of the unofficial leader, along with her partner, Jody—they had grand plans for the place. They’d planted up a courtyard with vegetables, just like yours, actually. Well, on a smaller scale, I guess,” he added with a grin, and Castiel returned it as he sipped from his glass.

Dean’s grin falls, and he looks back to his empty glass. “The virus came, got through our defenses, ruined everything. Lotta people died.” 

Castiel stays still, watching the pain cross Dean’s face, longing to reach out to him. How could the world have gone so wrong in just a matter of months? 

“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching instead for the bottle and pulling the stopper with a dull pop. “The virus ruined a lot of things.” He poured more whiskey into their glasses, and they drank in silence, the truth of that statement sinking in.

Dean put his glass down on the table, turning it against the wood slowly with the fingers of both hands. “Cas, thanks again for letting us stay. Honestly, we owe you.”

Castiel shrugs a little, a smile reflecting the warmth in his chest. “It’s nothing.”

Dean nods. “Still, we won’t be in your way for long. We’ll need to move soon, get on our way west. We have some idea where Dad might be in the city. And if there’s anyone who could make it there, it’s him.” He huffs, shaking his head.

Cas nods too, a sinking feeling within him. “Sam might not be fit for travel for a few days.”

“But he’ll be fine, thanks to you.” Dean’s expression brightens slightly. "You should come with us, Cas." He speaks softly, hopefully. 

But Castiel’s heart aches. He hesitates, throwing back the last of his drink. The idea is strangely tempting—to just run away from his life all over again, leave this beautiful prison behind. But to what? Dean and Sam would find their father and then what? What would Castiel possibly do in the city? There’s nothing for him there. 

“No,” he replies. “Thanks, but I owe it to my family to keep this place going as long as I can.”

Dean nods, with an understanding smile. He yawns, covering his mouth with one hand, then rubbing at his eyes. “Sorry, dude, I think I’m gonna have to call it. I’m wiped.”

Dean stands up, and as he passes Castiel, he puts a hand on Castiel's shoulder, squeezing gently. Castiel can hardly breathe. 

“Thanks for a great night, Cas.”

Castiel looks up at Dean, sure than Dean must be able to feel his heart beating double-time. “Any time,” he mutters, and Dean lets go of his shoulder, smiling as he turns to pad across the living room and back to the annexe.

Castiel should really go up to bed himself, but he sits at the table a while longer, reminding himself over and over that he can just let these men go on their journey. Help them, sure, but ultimately say goodbye. That’s what he should do. It’s suicide to go down to the city. He should just let them go on their way, let things go back to how they were.

But can he?


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel wakes up to sunlight streaming in his bedroom window. 

He'd lain awake long into the night, unable to calm his racing mind, and when he finally slept, it seems exhaustion has taken him well past his usual dawn wake-up. 

The house is quiet as he gets up and dressed, picking through his closet to find something nicer than his usual worn-out t-shirt and sweats. What of it? Nothing wrong with dressing nicely for company, is there? He frowns as he unsuccessfully tries to flatten his hair. It will need to be cut sooner or later, but is there really any point? 

Downstairs seems empty again, just like any normal day. Are his guests still asleep? He gathers fresh bandages and the bottle of peroxide and heads down the corridor as quietly as he can. The blanket is folded neatly on the couch and there's no sign of Dean, but 

Sam lies asleep in the bedroom, his breathing deep and even. The teapot is back in here, sitting on the nightstand, cold and empty when Castiel picks it up. Had Sam had another fever during the night? He hadn’t heard anything.

Castiel hates to have to wake him, but his wound needs to be checked. He fills the bowl from yesterday with warm water and puts it to one side, then approaches Sam carefully, saying, “Sam?” When there's no response, he gently touches Sam's arm where it lies uncovered by the topsheet, lifting it to start unwrapping the bandage. 

Sam wakes up with a start and a snort, pulling his arm away and crying out when the pain hits him. 

“Whoa, steady there!” Castiel reassures him, backing away with his palms out, but Sam blinks the sleep out of his eyes, turning his gaze to stare at him. 

“The fuck are you? Where's Dean?” Sam looks around the room groggily, then draws a sharp breath as he tries to lift his arm again. 

Castiel keeps his voice even. “Dean's fine, although I'm not sure where he is right now. You need to stay in bed,” he adds as Sam tries to sit up and lift his legs to swing over the side of the bed. 

Sam sounds panicked. “No, man, I need to get out of here, we're in danger. Where are we? What happened to Dean?” 

Castiel frowns at the “danger” comment, but says, “Nothing happened to Dean. He's around somewhere.” Castiel tries to put a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder above the wound, and Sam lies back down, his breath still quickened and his face pale. Castiel continues, “My name is Castiel—this is my house. You've been in bed with a fever for the last twenty-four hours. Do you remember arriving here?”

Sam lifts his other hand to rub at his forehead. Dean must have given his brother a sponge bath last night because he's looking less grimy than he was when they arrived. “I dunno, it's all a bit…bit fuzzy. You sure Dean’s all right?” 

Castiel narrows his eyes, wondering how bad their situation had been before they arrived here that Sam would be so worried about Dean now. Maybe the fever hasn't quite broken. “I’m sure, or at least he was last I saw him. May I take a look at your shoulder? I have fresh bandages.”

Sam nods, still covering his eyes with his large hand, and Castiel carefully lifts Sam's arm to unwrap the bandage. The wound looks a little better, less angry, but still red. “I’m going to clean this again, then go and get you some antibiotics, okay?” 

Sam lifts his hand to glance at Castiel, alarmed. “Is it infected? It was just a little slice, didn't even need stitches…”

“A little, yes. But it's looking better already.” Castiel grabbed the warm water and a cloth and gently cleaned the cut again, Sam stoically holding still while he wrapped it up again with a clean bandage. 

“Thanks, Castiel,” Sam says as Castiel finishes up. “We, uh, don't really have anything in the way of valuables that we can pay you with. Dean’ll probably offer, to, um, to help you out, but we could both help around the farm.” He winces as he leans back against the pillows again.

Castiel takes in the flush spreading across Sam's cheeks, and he's pleased to see a bit of color back in him after yesterday. But is he really so embarrassed to be traveling cross country with nothing? He’s sure there have been plenty more in the same situation since Croatoan. “He has, but I don't require payment, it's fine.” Castiel shakes his head. “You're just lucky you weren't also infected with Croatoan, or you'd be the walking dead by now.”

Sam grimaces again. “Yeah, lucky.” He rubs the back of his neck with one hand. 

Castiel gets up from the edge of the bed and gathers the bowl and dirty bandages from the bed. “I’ll go and get the antibiotics and see if I can find Dean, but you should get some more rest if you can.”

“Okay. Thanks again.” Sam shifts down onto the pillow.

By the time Castiel has returned with packets of antibiotic and anti-inflammatory tablets, Sam is asleep again. He leaves the medicine on the nightstand and heads out the back door, wondering where Dean might have got to. 

Walking down the grassy slope, he takes a moment to look out into the valley. The sun is already high, but it’s a little less baking out here today than it has been in the last few days. 

A movement down along the main road catches his eye, the glint of sunlight on steel. A car? He hasn’t seen anyone drive along there for what...weeks? Months, even. Now and then a lone Croat will trip his cameras at the gate, and he’ll take them out—he’s getting pretty good at headshots these days. But more actual people? He shakes his head at the coincidence, and turns away from the cliff edge. Dean isn’t around here, but as he gets closer to the corner of the house again he can hear some chopping sounds, some rustling of leaves. 

The brambles! Has Dean made a start already? Castiel hurries over to the crumbling wall and ducks under the hanging branches, stepping over a huge pile of cut brambles outside the garden. What he sees on the other side makes him stop in his tracks, jaw dropped.

Dean has been hard at work, for what looks like hours. The blackberries have been slashed right back, revealing the bushes underneath, a huge pile of cut bramble against the wall. The man himself still stands in the middle of the garden, machete in hand, sweat glistening across his bare back and shoulders. He pants heavily as he hacks at the thorny vine, throwing each cut piece behind him with gloved hands. 

Castiel can't seem to move as he swallows against his suddenly dry throat. Dean's muscles tense in his back and shoulders, and Castiel can't help but follow them down to his tapered waist, where the sweat is collecting on the t-shirt tucked into the back of his jeans. He takes a moment to mourn that the t-shirt's placement means he can't see the shape of what's inside the jeans, when he catches himself, realizing he’s been staring at Dean like some kind of creeper for too long. 

He steps forward and clears his throat. “Dean?”

Dean turns in surprise, then beams when he sees Castiel there. “Hey, Cas! I made a start, what do you think?”

Sweat is running from Dean’s face, and as Castiel’s eyes travel across his broad chest and arms, whatever's stirring inside him leaps to attention. Purple from the ripe berries is streaked across Dean’s skin, alongside red scratches from the brambles. He snaps his eyes back up to Dean’s face, licking his dry lips in reflex. 

“You...you started…” he begins, then stops, cursing himself. Of course he’s started. He tears his eyes away from Dean’s body to look around the garden. The brambles have been cleared from perhaps a third of the space, the small bushes underneath looking sickly but still alive. The larger bushes are fine, though—he can see fruit on his mother’s prized fig tree, and flowers all over the plum trees.

He hasn’t even been inside this garden for months—no wonder the brambles have taken over. A rush of gratitude overwhelms him, and he sits down heavily on an uncovered stone bench before his knees buckle underneath him. 

Dean watches Cas sink onto the garden bench, suddenly worried he’s done something wrong. “You okay?” he asks.

Cas murmurs, “Yes, I’m fine. I...it just means a lot to me, this place. And I haven’t been looking after it.”

Dean treads over, his boots crunching over the cut stems littering the path. He sits down beside Castiel, removing his gloves and wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. He hisses a little as the salty sweat gets into the cuts on his arm. He chuckles. “Fuckin’ brambles, huh? Prickly sons of bitches.”

Cas huffs out a laugh, rubbing his own face, maybe brushing away a tear? Dean feels all warm that he’s affected Cas in such a way. The guy is so lonely, the gratitude for such a simple act is almost rolling off him in waves. 

“I’ll get a pair of gloves and come help you soon.”

Dean nods. “I need a break, anyway. It’s hard work.” 

He’s been at it since soon after dawn. Despite sleeping like a rock beside Sam through most of the night, Sam had woken him up in the early hours flailing around, burning up with fever again. He’d found the dregs of the tea Cas had made for him last night still in its pot on the sink, so he boiled some more water in the kettle and refilled the pot, adding some cold water so it wasn’t too hot to drink. At least Sam had been semi-coherent this time, so getting him to swallow it wasn’t too much of a task. Dean had lain on the couch afterwards, unable to get back to sleep, and ended up getting up anyway when the grey light of day started to filter in.

The gloves and machete had been easy enough to find in Cas’ huge shed. He’d tried to play down his curiosity about the rows of jars on a shelf or the many boxes that were stacked up in here—they didn’t seem like farm goods, but he didn’t want to pry into Cas’ life, as much as he might be crushing on the guy. 

Castiel stands up abruptly, moving across the garden to the areas Dean has cleared, reaching up to inspect a tree full of small fruits.

Last night, Dean had enjoyed his dinner with Cas more than he’d expected to. He couldn’t tamp down his attraction to the guy—he was smart, caring, and had a wickedly dry sense of humor that Dean found irresistible. Considering their situation, though, Dean should really be doing what he can to repay Cas and moving on, dragging Sam along to the west. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s used his body to get him and Sam some favors, sometimes just a meal. A memory surfaces of the first time he’d done that—a dark alley in Kansas City, just before Donna had found them, brought them in. He’d got these very boots from that guy, after sucking the guy’s dick on his knees on the dirty asphalt. It wasn’t the last time. 

But here, it feels wrong to offer that to Cas as payment for his help. He’s been kind enough to look after Sam and feed Dean, and he’s obviously missing his family and human contact in general. Dean isn’t even sure if his own attraction isn’t just a product of the fact that he hasn’t got laid himself in months. Not really many opportunities to rub one out when you’re on the road with your brother, either. Better to help Cas out in whatever other way he can, then be on their way. The longer they stay here, the more chance there is of Azazel catching up to them.

Cas wanders around the cleared area of the garden, pulling extra cut branches off smaller plants, helping to pile them up to take away. 

“Look at this! I think these are blueberry bushes. I’d forgotten they were even here,” he says, wonder in his voice. “Raspberries as well, I think!”

Dean watches him, the wonder in his voice a joy to behold. Nope, he shouldn’t take advantage of the fact that Cas is so lonely, but surely spending time with him, giving him companionship isn’t so wrong?

“Honestly, thank you, Dean.” Cas smiles as he turns towards him.

Dean shrugs, getting up to follow him and leaving the gloves behind on the stone seat. “It’s the least I can do. It’s not that big a job, really. We slash it all out and hopefully find where the roots are, I guess.”

Castiel has stopped in his tracks, staring down at something just off the path. Dean steps towards him, trying to see what he’s looking at—it’s a small, wooden cross, hammered into the soil, not far from a wide circle of joined stones, sort of like the wall. The center of the stone circle is covered, and Dean had wondered what it could be when he first uncovered it an hour ago, but pulling the handle on the top of the cover wouldn’t budge it, no matter how hard he’d tried.

When he looks to Cas’ face, the look of absolute heartbreak and sadness there almost makes him gasp out loud. He puts one hand to Cas’ shoulder. “What is it? You okay?”

“Yes, yes, sorry, I’m fine,” Cas says, rubbing at his face again and taking a hitching breath in and out. “My sister. This was her favorite place.”

“Is that cross for her?” The cross is unmarked, but a string of beads hangs from it, bright blue and red. 

Cas nods.

Dean’s heart sinks. They’ve all lost so much, everyone has. “Was it...was it Croatoan? Did you have to…?” He trails off, not willing to finish that sentence, but Cas took over anyway.

“No! No, thank god, not that.” He turned away from the cross, bowing his head for a few moments. 

Dean’s relieved for him. Some people he’d known in Lawrence had taken their own lives when they had realized they’d been infected. Others…had to be dealt with after they’d already turned. Dean himself had shot his own neighbour when he’d lurched out at him at the front of his apartment, and the horrors of that day have long been overshadowed by the countless others he’s dealt with since.

Castiel takes a deep breath. “We arrived here together—when things first broke out, I flew down to her place in Sacramento and we watched it all go to hell. We, uh…” he pauses to take a deep, shaky breath. “We got out of the city and made our way up here. The place was deserted—I have no idea where my parents went, if they’re even still alive. Everything was still running, but it looked like it had been empty for a while.” He takes another breath, squaring his shoulders before speaking again, a little more evenly this time. “We were fine, for a few months. Then Anna got sick.”

Dean’s chest clenches. The collapse of society didn’t just start and end with the Croatoan apocalypse, after all. People are still hungry, sick, desperate all over the country. Without modern equipment and services available, things have been difficult. 

Cas is staring at the garden, unseeing now. It’s like he’s been bottling this story up for so long, and now there’s someone to tell, it all comes pouring out. “It was just a cold, at first. Then I found out she’d been coughing up blood, and her fevers were bad, especially at night. The antibiotics we had didn’t seem to help, she just wasn’t getting better. I tried, I tried so hard to keep her fed and clean and medicated, but she’d cough, and her lips would end up blue.” He gulps and turns his face away from Dean. “She went quietly, in the end. I'm sorry, you probably didn't want to know all that.” He wipes roughly at his eyes again. 

Dean's pretty sure his heart couldn't be more broken. “Actually no, the fact that you had to go on from that alone, and you're still here today, makes you one of the strongest people I've ever met.” 

Cas looks back to him, his eyes full of sadness, and a kind of bone-tiredness that Dean can empathise with. He pulls Cas in by his sleeve and wraps his arms around him in a hug. At first, Cas tenses up, rigid in his arms, but after a few seconds he melts into Dean, wrapping his arm around Dean’s back. Dean hadn’t remembered that he still isn’t wearing a shirt until Cas puts his bare palm on his back, warm and gentle. 

Suddenly he’s too close, too hot. Dean hasn’t been this close to another person for weeks, and he tries to step back again, but Cas holds him close like he might never let go. 

Dean murmurs, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” He’s not even really sure what he means, but the way Cas is burying his face in Dean’s shoulder, he doesn’t really care. After what feels like forever, Cas loosens his hold with a choked kind of noise. He hadn’t been crying, but his eyes are wet, and so impossibly blue. Dean is trapped in his gaze, and he reaches up one hand to wipe a tear from Castiel’s cheek. “You all right?”

Cas nods, not taking his eyes off Dean’s. Dean’s hand lingers close to Cas’ stubbled cheek—he wants to touch, to make this remarkable man feel again. 

But Cas is the one who closes the distance, leaning in to brush his lips against Dean’s, pulling back to check on him, eyes wide, surprised at his own audacity, perhaps. Dean puts his palm on the curve of Cas’ jaw and plants his lips on Cas’ again, more urgently this time. A little voice in the back of his mind is screaming at him to stop, to keep his distance, but his body doesn’t seem to have got that message. His heart is racing, every nerve ending sparking like he’s electrified. Cas’ hands run up and down Dean’s back, leaving tingling trails on his skin. 

When Cas finally steps back, Dean immediately chases him, trying to pull him back in for another kiss, but Cas puts his hand on Dean’s chest. “No, not...not here. This place is…”

Dean stops, understanding bringing his arousal back into check. “Sure, got it.” They both stand silently for a few moments, Cas clearing his throat and Dean scuffing at the bramble cuttings on the path. Dean says, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—” just as Cas says, “Dean, I—”

They both give embarrassed laughs, and Dean wonders how he’s managed to turn into a blushing teen in front of this guy. 

He grabs Cas’ hand, rubbing his thumb over the back of it. “Let’s finish this work, and continue this later, okay?” 

“Okay,” Cas says, his cheeks and ears a delicious shade of deep pink. “I’m...gonna go and find something to cut with.”

While Cas leaves to fetch gloves and a cutting tool from the shed, Dean takes a deep breath and shakes the tension from his arms and hands. He needs to get a grip—Cas is pressing all his buttons, and he's looking forward to seeing how far Cas is willing to take him, but it's gotta be on Cas' terms. 

By the time Cas gets back with a large pair of shears, Dean is already back to hacking at the brambles with the machete, unwilling to admit just how turned on he’d been a few minutes earlier. They continue to work side by side, sharing shy glances and smiles now and then. Dean can see that Cas is also working up a sweat as he cuts away at the bramble with a large pair of secateurs, but he doesn’t take his shirt off. 

As the day gets hotter, Cas walks back over to the circle of set stones, turning a lever at the base and lifting the round, metal lid. 

“It’s a well,” he explains, pulling on a rope hanging down, far underground. “There’s a water table down there, far down at the moment since we haven’t had rain for a while.” 

Dean peers down into the dark hole, seeing metal rungs set into the stone-lined wall. A small bucket is making its way up, with Castiel drawing it up hand over hand. At the top, he picks up the bucket and pours the contents over his head, and Dean eyes the way the rivulets of water run down his neck and wet the fabric of his shirt, making it stick to his skin. “You want some?” Cas asks, catching Dean staring at him.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Dean agrees, and Cas drops the bucket back down, drawing it up after a few moments.

Dean tips the icy water over his own head, delighting in the way it sends a shiver over his skin as it falls. 

As Cas replaces the well’s cover with a clang, a small noise comes from his pocket, surprising them both. He fishes out a phone, staring at it for a few moments. He glances up to Dean, saying, “More visitors. There’s someone coming up the hill.” 

“There’s what?” Possible scenarios start playing through Dean’s mind. Has Azazel finally come for them? He thought they’d really lost him this time. 

“Dean?” Castiel is watching him with worried eyes when he looks over at him. “What is it?”

He turns to Cas, the horror presumably showing on his face for Cas to look so worried. “I haven’t told you everything about how we got here from Kansas.”


	5. Chapter 5

Croats lurch up the driveway—maybe seven, eight of them. The image is grainy on the screen, but Castiel knows that unmistakable movement, where the infected person is no longer quite in control of their limbs. He stares more closely at the person walking at the back of the group—the man walks so normally, he almost looks like he might be uninfected, if such a thing were possible. 

“That’s him. Azazel.” Dean breathes the name out with something sounding like disgust, and perhaps, fear. 

“You _know_ him?” Castiel asks, turning to him incredulously. “Is he uninfected?”

“Yes. And I know why he’s here. What he wants.” Dean shakes his head sadly. “I’m so sorry, Cas, I really thought we’d lost him this time.”

Castiel’s concern ratchets up as he takes in the defeat in Dean’s face, his slumped posture. “What does he want? And how is he able to—”

“He wants Sam. No time to explain now, we’d better get out to the gate. I’ll go get my gun.”

Castiel stops him with a hand to his shoulder. “Go quickly check on Sam. I’ll get two guns.”

Dean nods and heads out of the small office, his face grim. 

Castiel turns back to the security camera footage—the Croats and their uninfected follower are gone from this view, but he quickly scrolls through to the next camera, by the gate. He’d better get moving, they’ll be there in just a few minutes.

He opens the gun safe—there’s no point keeping it locked anymore, so he hasn’t bothered since the last time a random Croat nearly made it to the house. Up until now, he hasn’t seen more than one Croat at a time, so seeing a whole group of them together like this is jarring—and terrifying.

One loaded shotgun under his arm and a smaller handgun in his hand, and Castiel quickly heads out of the house and up towards the gate. How has this guy managed to track Dean and Sam here? Has he driven these Croats all the way across the country? 

Dean catches up with him at the top of the drive, and Castiel hands him the shotgun grimly. “Are you okay with this?” 

“It’ll do. Listen, Azazel’s a slippery fucker. Let me do the talking, okay? He might try to get in your ear, but don’t listen to him. He’s a liar and a psycho.”

Castiel has so many questions right now, but he answers with, “Okay?”

Dean grimaces when he glances back at Castiel. “Sorry, Cas. I’ll explain later, I promise. There's too much.”

When they reach the gate, Castiel can see the group still making their way up the hill. He and Dean watch them for only a few moments, until they stop suddenly. 

“What’re they doing?” Castiel says lowly. 

“Nothing good,” Dean grumbles, and raises the shotgun to his shoulder, unlocking the safety. He makes a disappointed clicking sound with his tongue as he tries to take aim. “Can’t hit ‘em from here.”

“Dean Winchester, you are a hard man to track down.” 

The voice is deep, grating. Castiel peers at the group of Croats, their black-streaked faces impassive as they stand swaying in place. He can’t make out the man behind them.

Dean, close beside him as they stand behind the metal gate, murmurs, “Fire in the hole.” 

Castiel barely has time to glance quizzically at him before he shoots, the gunshot making Castiel jump backwards in fright. 

“Jesus, Dean,” he pants, the adrenaline rushing through him as he watches one of the Croats stumble. It’s not a headshot though—the unfortunate man shuffles back upright, staying in place. Why are they just waiting there like that?

“What? I warned you—” Dean replies, under his breath still.

“Bring Sam to me, Dean. That’s all I want.” The voice comes again, implacable, unruffled.

Dean keeps the shotgun high as he calls, “Not gonna happen.”

Castiel catches a glimpse of the uninfected man now, as he steps clear of the group of Croats for barely a few seconds before moving back into his cover. He’s of an average height and build, but Castiel’s already-racing heart leaps into his throat as he sees the man’s face, and his yellow eyes. 

No, they’re just glasses, the yellow lenses giving the man an alien kind of look. Suddenly, Castiel recognizes him. He’s watched videos of this guy, while he was studying in Pontiac. He _knew_ he’d heard that name before...

“I see you’ve made a friend, Dean. Hello, there. My name’s Doctor Azazel.” 

Castiel doesn’t reply. He doesn’t want this man to know his name.

Azazel continues, “You’ve been helping out my little friends, Dean and Sam. Thank you for that. But it’s time they came with me to face up to their actions.”

Dean snorts, the sound mirthless.

Castiel glances at him, then calls out, “They’re not going anywhere with you.”

“Dude, I told you to let me do the talking!” Dean whispers forcefully.

“Ah,” Azazel calls, a smile in his voice. “Are you sure you want to defend them? They’ve done terrible things, killed a lot of innocent people. I’m just trying to make the world a safer place.” 

Castiel eyes the Croats standing still in front of Azazel. If he can control them…

“Bring Sam to me, and I’ll let your little friend live on his farm in peace, Dean.” 

Dean glances at Castiel, his expression conflicted for barely a moment, before he turns back to Azazel and his bodyguards, his mouth set in a line. 

“We’re not coming with you, Azazel, so you can take your dead friends and fuck off.”

Castiel hears Azazel’s sigh faintly on the wind. “Very well, I’ll come and take you by force, then.”

Castiel grits his teeth and raises his gun as well, ready for the Croats to move forward, but they don’t. Instead, three of them peel off the side of the steep driveway and start crashing through the low scrub. Castiel and Dean both stare for a moment before Castiel realizes where they’re headed, the horror turning his stomach to ice. “The house!” he says urgently, and turns to stare as Dean brushes past him and rushes off down the driveway, back through the orchard.

He watches Dean go, wondering whether he should follow, but there are still three Croats on the drive with Azazel, so he’ll have to stay behind and defend Eden from here. He turns back to Azazel, alarmed to see them shuffling forwards up the drive. 

“Stay back,” he calls, worried at how long it's been since he last had to nail a headshot. He’s out of practice, that’s for sure.

“I don’t know why you’re harboring them, friend." Azazel stays behind his meat shields, barely peeking out. 

Castiel isn't sure he can get a clear shot. “I am not your friend,” he says, carefully aiming. He fires, the first shot going wide beside the Croat he’d been aiming for—a well-built young woman wearing ragged lycra workout gear.

“If only you knew what they’ve done. They doomed so many to death, you know—left their own uncle to die so they could get away. Just let me take them and I can stop all this.”

“Bite me,” Castiel replies in a snarl, his heart hammering in his throat. He fires again and the woman in the lycra kicks back, blood spraying from the back of her head. She falls to the drive, lifeless. 

Azazel and the other Croats stop, and Azazel steps out, his hands raised. He looks down at the slumped corpse at his feet, then back up. Castiel keeps his gun trained on the man as he says, “What if I told you I could cure these people you’ve just cruelly shot?”

Castiel hesitates, his finger tight on the trigger. He’s got to take this shot—he only has four bullets to take them all down. “I’d say you were a liar.” 

He fires again, a second Croat going down in a heap, this time an older man, his lined face slack as the bullet hits his forehead.

“Wow, you’re a great shot!” Azazel says, clapping his hands a few times. “But seriously, you’re killing innocents here.”

“They’re already dead,” Castiel returns through gritted teeth. He hears a gunshot behind him somewhere… _Dean_. 

“Sam and Dean are the key to all this—let me take them and I can make everything better. Trust me,” Azazel says, the smile on his face looking oddly friendly considering the death surrounding him. “It’s a nice farm you’ve got here. Wouldn’t want to see anything happen to it.”

Castiel desperately wants to know what the hell he’s talking about, but hadn’t Dean just said that Azazel would try to get in his ear? He shakes his head, lining up for another shot, the blood roaring in his ears. He hears another gunshot down the hill.

“Don’t you want to go back to how you were before these men came to ruin your life?” Azazel tries again.

Ruin his life? The realization hits him like a ton of bricks—there’s no way he wants to go back to his life before Dean and Sam arrived. What good is paradise, if he’s alone? 

He clenches his teeth again, and fires. The shot hits the last Croat in the shoulder, and Castiel curses under his breath. 

Azazel smiles grimly this time. “Very well, you’ve made your choice. I’ll return, and I’ll be taking Sam and Dean, and nothing will stand in my way. You've got two days to convince them to let you be.”

He turns walking away down the hill. As he goes he taps at something on his wrist, and the Croat lurches forward, running towards Castiel. 

Castiel stares at Azazel’s retreating back. One bullet left, but to try to take out the Croat, or Azazel himself? He certainly doesn’t trust Azazel, but what if there was truth to his claim that he could cure people of the virus? Plus, the idea of shooting someone uninfected seems so much worse than killing Croats, somehow. 

He lines up the final Croat and nails the middle-aged man between his eyes, brains and blood spraying across the drive as he falls to the gravel. 

Castiel watches Azazel’s retreating form heading away down the hill, wishing he had another round to fire, but knowing he needs to turn back to make sure Dean is okay. As he turns away from the gate to run down the driveway, he has the sick realization that he’s pretty sure he only heard two gunshots.

Dean is barely to the walled garden before he hears the Croats crashing through the trees. Trying to work out where they might come through, he holds the shotgun ready as he ducks into the garden under the low-hanging foliage.

Azazel—that asshole! How the fuck has he followed them across the desert on foot like this? Is he tracking them somehow? They aren’t carrying any electronics that work. However he’s done it, Dean can’t let those Croats get to the house—not only to protect Sam, but to also stop them from trashing Cas’ place. 

The bramble patch within the walls is much smaller now, but the gap in the wall on the other side of the garden is still thick with them. That doesn’t seem to stop the Croats, though—the first one pushes through the tangle, Dean staring with horror as the thorns tear streaks into the man’s hands and face. He crashes through, crushing the stems underfoot, and Dean notices that he only wears one boot. The other bare foot is caught under some thorny shoots and the man crashes to the ground, shaking Dean out of his frozen state. He pulls the shotgun up to his shoulder, firing at close range to blast the guy’s head apart. 

The noise is deafening inside the walled garden, but the other Croats are starting to climb through the gap, so Dean backs up to buy himself some time as he reloads with a click-crunch. He’s only ever fired a shotgun like this a few times, long ago when he and Sam went to stay with Uncle Bobby for a summer. This isn’t so different from shooting cans off the top of a scrapped car, is it? 

The next Croat gets to its feet and stumbles after him—a woman with long, blonde hair and one false eyelash stuck to her cheek, a sight that might have been comical if she wasn’t trying to rip his face off. Steeling himself against the idea of killing innocents, he raises the gun to his shoulder and fires again, the back of her head disappearing in a spray of blood and worse.

“God damn it, that’s disgusting,” he mutters, swallowing the acid rising in his throat. Dean backs up a little more, reloading as fast as he can, but when he raises the gun to his shoulder and lines up at the next target, the mechanism clicks and jams. He pulls the trigger again, but nothing happens.

“Son of a bitch!” 

He backs up as the last Croat climbs through the gap, the bramble thorns scratching up its bare arms as the previous three had. This one had been a man as well, tall and broad this time, but wearing the remains of suit pants and a button-down shirt with most of the buttons missing, like he’d just come from a particularly violent business meeting. The black streaks on his face and neck aren’t very dark or pronounced—this guy hasn’t been infected for long. 

Where have they come from? Dean has no idea where Castiel’s farm actually is in relation to any towns, but there must be something nearby for Azazel to infect. Surely he couldn’t have moved these people far like this. But who knows what that fucker is capable of?

Once infected, Croats know no pain, no fear. He won’t stop until Dean’s dead or infected, and then he’ll be after Sam. He can’t let that happen. He turns the shotgun around and smacks the Croat in the face with it, making sure to keep the barrel pointing upwards in case the damn thing goes off after all. The Croat stumbles backwards, and Dean takes the opportunity to quickly look around for something else he can use as a weapon. He backs towards the downhill side of the garden, avoiding the side still choked with brambles. 

A few rocks lie at the bottom of the wall here, partially collapsed from the top, and Dean picks a larger one up, hefting it in his fist. Before he can turn back, the Croat slams into his back, crashing him into the wall and making him fumble his hold on the rock. The Croat slams him again, and small rocks rain down from the wall above. Dean manages to spin around and grip the guy’s face from where he’s trying to bite him, pushing him away while the Croat slams him back into the wall again, this time sending rocks toppling down. An awful crunching sound comes from the other side. What had been out there? Dean can’t remember, but he keeps trying to push the Croat away, kicking at his knees. 

An almighty screeching sound comes from the other end of the garden, making both Dean and the Croat pause and turn to look. Meg the goat stands across the garden, staring at both of them. She opens her mouth again and screams, and Dean’s panicky brain flatlines for a few moments. What the fuck is that animal’s problem? But a glimmer on something in the light filtering through the trees above catches his eye. The machete! The Croat turns back to him and makes an awful growling sound. The sound of it sends icy fingers up his spine, but he takes the pause for what it’s worth and ducks out of the Croat’s reach to one side, racing over to where the machete lies, where he’d dropped it when they first heard Cas’ alarms. 

The Croat is after him immediately with unnatural speed, and Dean grips the machete as tightly as he can and swings it around, praying that the blade hasn’t been dulled too much by hours of chopping through brambles. The machete smacks into the Croat’s neck with a wet thunk, and he blinks for a few moments, then keels over with a crash.

Dean stands, panting, staring at the corpses at his feet. He leans down and yanks the machete out of the big guy's neck—it takes a couple of tries, but eventually comes free with a squelch. Dean nearly pukes right there all over the dead Croat, but he staggers away, heading to the other side of the garden where the wall had been damaged. Enough stone blocks have fallen that he can see the view beyond, now. 

And the crushed remains of the beehives on the ground. 

"No…" Horror sends his heart sinking as he takes in the destruction, then turns to survey the already-rotting corpses in the garden. What has he done? Then his breath catches as he sees Castiel standing in the garden entry, his eyes wide. 

"Dean!" Cas says as he sees him standing there. "What happened?" 

Dean stares at him. “Cas,” he says, then stops as his throat tightens. He can’t seem to catch his breath again. “‘M sorry. I’m so sorry,” he says.

Castiel moves forward, avoiding the corpses strewn across the garden, but stops a few steps from Dean. "I'm glad you're okay," he says uneasily, taking in the machete still in Dean's hand. 

Dean nods, giving Cas half a weary grin. "Likewise. Azazel?" 

"He left, but he says he'll be back." Cas looks grim as he adds, “You need to tell me everything, Dean.” 


	6. Chapter 6

Dean turns away from Castiel, his bloodied face downcast towards the mess spread across the cut brambles. His breath is still fast, and he sways in place a little.

“I’ll tell you all of it, okay?” Dean finally replies, his eyes guarded as he turns back to Castiel. “But I’d rather Sam was awake first.”

Cas can’t help a cold lurch in his gut. What is this man hiding? He nods carefully, not sure why Dean needs his brother’s help to explain, but willing to hear the full story. He’d be happy to hear from Sam, anyway, after their conversation earlier.

He looks down at the dark blood streaked across Dean, all over his hands and splashed across his face. “Did they cut you?” He steps back, suddenly. If Dean’s infected…

“No. No, I don’t think so,” Dean replies, eyes wide as he looks down at himself. “Few bruises, and I think my back’s gonna ache tomorrow...but I guess we’ll know in a few hours.”

Castiel nods, feeling sick. The virus doesn’t take long to have an effect—bloodshot eyes would be first, followed by the black streaks on the skin. By then, the violent impulses would begin. He swallows hard, hoping with his whole heart that that will not happen. 

He turns to survey the corpses in the garden, the blood-stained leaves and the splatters on rocks lining the path. This place…would it ever regain the peace and solitude it once had? It seems unlikely right now. He sighs, fighting down an urge to turn his back on all this and hide inside the house.

The death feels itchy on his hands, as though he’ll never be able to clean them again, no matter how hard he scrubs at the skin. He’s never had to deal with so many Croats at a time before. Dean, though, washes the blood off the machete and his hands and face perfunctorily in another bucket of water drawn from the garden’s well. The clothes he's borrowed from Castiel are still streaked with partially dried mess.

Castiel walks over to the nearest of the dead Croats, a blonde woman with a puddle of blood beneath her head. Her eyes stare upwards towards the sky. Castiel shudders, but calls to Dean, “Help me move these?”

Dean eyes the corpses dubiously. “Where to?”

“I don’t really have anywhere to bury this many, but I have firewood. If we can drag them to the open area by the cliff, we can cremate them.”

Dean nods, but then as Castiel turns back to the woman’s body, Dean says, “Wait. You sure you want to touch these?”

Castiel frowns. All he’d been thinking of was getting them out of his mother’s garden—he hadn’t even considered they were still infected and contagious. 

A few minutes later, Castiel is armed with an old pair of long-sleeved coveralls and each of them wearing a protective mask plus their gardening gloves from earlier. They manage to pick up the woman’s corpse between them, with Dean at her head and Castiel lifting her limp legs. As they struggle out of the garden and down the hill towards the cliff, Castiel can’t help his gasp of dismay as the ruined beehives come into view, broken pieces of hive littering the ground among the rubble.

"Uh, yeah, the wall kind of collapsed,” Dean says, obviously flustered. “I am so sorry. That Croat slammed me right against it—I didn't realize it was so loose there—" 

"Dean, please, it’s okay," Castiel interrupts as they shuffle further down the hill with their burden. The hive on the end still looks like it might be in one piece. He’s upset about the other hives, of course—it's taken years to get the bee population to this point, with his father and then Castiel splitting the hives and gathering honey regularly, but if one hive is intact, it’s nothing that can’t be repaired, given time. 

Dean shifts his grip under the corpse’s shoulders. “But you said the bees were what kept the farm going! I should have led them away from here.”

“It’s not your fault,” Castiel reassures him.

Dean makes a disbelieving sort of huff behind his mask as they struggle down the slope towards the cliff. As they reach a flatter section, Castiel says, “Let’s put her down over there?" 

They gently lower the woman’s corpse to the grass, arranging her limbs so that she doesn’t look so violently deceased, and Castiel can’t help but wonder who she was, where she’d survived this long before she’d ended up here with Azazel. 

They don’t speak much more as they move the other corpses. Dean murmurs a “sorry” every now and then. He seems to be eaten up with guilt over the whole attack, and while Castiel is upset about his hives, and a little disappointed Dean hadn't told him they were followed in the first place so that they might have been better prepared, he's more concerned with the fact that Azazel is planning to _come back_. 

They carry the other bodies down from the garden and lay them beside the first victim on the dry grass—the corpses up on the drive will have to be dealt with in a second pyre, Castiel realizes. He locates a wheeled cart in the back of the shed, and they load it with wood, having to make several trips from the large firewood pile stacked against the back wall to bring enough. 

The physical labor allows him to forget what he’s just been through, though—allows him to let the horror of the day fade, even as he knows he’s barely holding it all together right now.

He lets Dean build up the wood and bramble cuttings into a pyre, not too high off the ground, but long enough to lay three bodies on. How Dean knows how to do this already, Castiel finds he doesn’t really want to know.

Dean finally douses the whole pile with gasoline, and they stand side by side while Cas holds a long barbecue lighter. Cas wants to say something, wants to give these people some of the dignity Azazel stripped from them, but he doesn’t think he can form the words right now. The whole situation is horrific, and there’s no dignity to be gained in being burned, nameless, on a shared pyre. 

Taking a deep breath, he steps forward silently and lights the section of soaked wood nearest him. The fire takes off, racing over the wood and licking up to touch the clothes of the corpses on top, and as the flames take hold a little more, he turns away, his stomach churning. He stumbles over to the edge of the forest near the fenceline and vomits up the little that was in him, eventually wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, panting hard. His heart is racing, and the world around him starts to fuzz around the edges, until a hand on his shoulder brings him solidly back to Earth.

Dean asks, “You done?” 

Castiel nods and steps a few paces away, not willing to let Dean see him in this state. He feels wretched, like it's just all so…so much. Losing Anna, the last year of solitude, Dean and Sam showing up, Azazel…

He angrily wipes wetness from his eyes, swallowing a few times and willing the panic to subside. The last thing he needs is to be vulnerable in front of Dean, before he can hear the full story of why they are being hunted. 

When his breathing becomes a little more even, he says, "Please, just leave me alone. I'll watch the...the fire." He doesn't actually want to look at it. The smell alone is almost unbearable.

Dean hesitates, then says, “Actually, I wanna go check on Sam. You should come with me.” Dean’s face is pale and drawn when Cas looks at him.

Cas just wipes a hand across his face again and nods. What else is there to do? The crushing tightness in his chest has eased a little, but his head is still swimming with all that’s going on. Maybe he can finally get the story from Sam and Dean now.

Sam is still asleep when Dean and Castiel let themselves into the annexe. Castiel quickly crosses to the kitchenette to fill a glass with water, rinsing the taste of sick from his mouth.

When Castiel joins Dean in the bedroom, Sam is just waking with a snort. He props himself on his good side to look at them, rubbing at his face with the other hand. 

"Dean? You all right?” Sam blinks as he stares at the state of the two of them. “What happened?" 

"Settle down, dude, we're okay," Dean says. "Good to see you awake, though."

"How're you feeling, Sam?" Castiel asks. It's been worrying him that Sam was sleeping so much—brought back far too many unpleasant memories of Anna's final weeks—but it seems Sam merely needed the rest. 

"I'm…okay, to be honest," Sam says, rubbing gently at the bandage on his arm. "Thirsty, but my arm’s feeling a little better." 

Dean grins broadly. "That's great! Uh, Cas, would you mind grabbing Sammy a drink while I fill him in on the situation?"

Castiel stares at him. He feels disloyal thinking it, but is Dean trying to buy time with Sam to correlate their stories? Dean admitted he hadn't told Cas the full story, and Azazel had hinted to a shady past. No, even after everything that has happened today, he can't see how he can trust them until they prove otherwise. 

He speaks up, saying tightly, "I'd like to hear Sam's take on it."

Dean eyes him carefully, perhaps catching on to his unease. If Castiel is honest with himself he's a lot more than uneasy. What's just happened has thrown his life upside down, and he's one scream away from a breakdown unless these guys don't start explaining themselves. 

"Azazel caught up," Dean says, turning his attention back to Sam as he sat on the edge of the bed. "He brought Croats with him, but he held them steady, like before. They attacked, but we fought them off." 

Sam's eyes were wide, and he jumped in with, "And now? Did you…? Is he…?" 

"No. Cas let him get away." 

"Excuse me, it was either let him go or be attacked by a Croat, so I think I made the right decision." Castiel bristles at the suggestion that he'd just let the guy go. "He was saying something about curing the virus, that you two were the key to it, or something?" 

Dean shares a long glance with Sam, their faces grim. 

"I'll get your drink," Dean says, standing up and heading for the door. "Sam, better start from the top."

Sam throws a withering look at Dean's retreating back. "Sorry about him. It's a difficult subject, for _all of us_ ," he says loudly, calling after his brother. He looks back to Cas. “Is that smoke I can smell?”

Castiel flinches, the acid taste still in his throat. “We...killed some Croats. We built a pyre…” He trails off, the weight of the afternoon’s work still almost crushing.

Sam’s eyes widen in horror, and he glances towards the main room of the annexe where Dean is running the faucet. “Oh. How many…?”

Castiel shakes his head. “A few.” He needs to get off this topic before he loses it again. “Sam, why is Doctor Azazel hunting you?" 

Sam blinks, rubbing tiredly at his forehead. "He's a...a Biotechnical Engineer, I think he told us. So, I dunno how much Dean told you already, but back in Lawrence we moved into a commune, after it all went down. It had walls and everything, and was kind of overseen by these amazing women. They looked after everyone, and we were keeping the Croats out and trying to produce food when we weren't going on supply runs. It wasn't pretty, but it kind of worked." Sam smiles as he speaks, obviously remembering better days. 

"That's when Azazel arrived." Dean had re-entered, carrying two glasses of water. He handed one over to Sam, then the other to Castiel, continuing as Sam murmured thanks and drank. "We took in any survivors we came across, kept them locked up in quarantine for a week or so to make sure they were clean before we let them in. Azazel promised he was a doctor, that he could help us care for the sick and injured."

Sam huffs at that. "He didn't help anyone. A few weeks after he arrived, people started contracting the virus. We kept them isolated to start with, as soon as the red eyes appeared." He gestures to his face. Castiel has only ever seen the early stages of the disease a few times, but everyone knows bloodshot eyes are one of the first symptoms. 

"Sam was one of 'em."

Castiel turns to stare at Dean. Is he serious? He looks serious. "That's impossible," he says. 

"If I hadn't seen him with the red eyes myself, I'd have thought so too," Dean says earnestly. "But honestly, Cas, I swear on my car, he was infected, and then I saw him walk out of there."

"Dean, you don't have a car," Castiel admonishes him. 

"Oh, I do," Dean says, grinning fondly, then his face falls. "We just had to leave her behind in Lawrence." 

“Dean’s car is his pride and joy, so he means it when he swears on it,” adds Sam, rolling his eyes.

Dean ignores Sam and continues. "Point is, Azazel brought the virus with him. I‘d given Sam up for dead when I had to leave him in the isolation rooms at the hospital." Castiel could hear the pain and anguish in Dean's voice, echoes of his trauma. "Then, I was nearby when I overheard someone telling Azazel that Sam had gotten better. He didn't tell me about it though, just said Sam would have to stay in isolation. I wasn't having that, so I busted him out."

"What if he was really still infected?" Castiel asks, his eyes wide. 

"He was better! I may not know much about this stuff, but I know that if you get over a virus then you're immune, right? So I got him out, and...shit kinda went sideways. The infection was more widespread than we thought. We left during the confusion, and Azazel followed us—we have no idea what he actually wants, but we’re pretty sure Sam being immune to the virus has something to do with it."

"He's been following us ever since," Sam says wearily. "He's got some way to control infected people, keep them from attacking him."

"Yeah, and attack others, like he just did," Dean adds, sharing a glance with Castiel.

"So when you both ran into Croats on the road, and Sam was injured…?" Castiel asks, his mind whirling. 

"Yeah, that was Azazel," Dean nods. "One of the Croats managed to cut Sam, we don’t know if he got bled on again, but the whole thing was a close call. We shot a few but they overwhelmed us. That was just after we ran out of gas and had to abandon the car."

Castiel nods, hesitating to try to gather his thoughts. "What about this cure?" 

Dean shakes his head. "He's lying. There's no cure—didn't the government try for months before things really went south?" 

"I dunno, Dean," Sam says, "he said he was a research scientist. Maybe he is working on a cure."

"Well, this is the first I've heard of it."

"We haven't exactly hung around long enough to ask questions," Sam says, huffing.

Castiel interrupts the brothers bickering. "He’s an epidemiologist. A well-known one."

Sam and Dean both turn to stare at him. Dean says, "What, you know him?” 

"Well, I don't know him personally, but I read a lot of his studies as part of my master's. He used to post videos of his lectures at Princeton on YouTube.”

They all take a moment of quiet, Castiel remembering the way things used to be before the world went to hell, and he assumes the others are doing the same. 

Sam takes a deep breath and lets it out again through pursed lips. “An epidemiologist. So it’s possible he could know more than anyone about the virus.”

Castiel nods thoughtfully. The man’s lectures had been about many different aspects of disease transmission, but he hadn’t watched many of them. His area of study had been more to do with food crop diseases. And it was so long ago now that he couldn’t remember much of it.

But there's a fair chance Azazel would know what the virus was, maybe even where it had originated from. And if he was able to control the infected somehow… Castiel feels a chill in his bones as an awful idea occurs to him. No, surely not… 

Sam looks up before he can say anything. "So, get this—what if…" He pauses, then shakes his head. "What if he created it?"

"Created what?" Dean asks, getting up and heading for Castiel's closet once again. 

"The virus?" Castiel asks Sam, who nods, his eyes wide. "I was just thinking the same thing. I saw him fiddle with something on his wrist before they attacked me—maybe some device to control them." 

"Why would he create something like that?" Dean asks incredulously as he shucks off his bloody t-shirt. Remembering the way Dean's sweaty skin felt against his fingers, Castiel looks away hurriedly. _Not the time, Novak_. Dean continues, turning to stare at them. "Wait, you're saying he deliberately brought the virus into the fort?"

"Or he created it and it got out of control, and he's trying to create a cure to fix things," Castiel adds, unwilling to believe anyone would create a disease that has destroyed so much of the population. 

"No," Dean says, immediately. "I told you, he's a fucking psychopath. Why would he chase me and Sam across the country? Attack the farm with his Croats?" He shoves his head through one of Castiel's clean t-shirts, this one a faded black with KISS written across the front. 

Sam jumps in. "When he arrived at the fort, he said he wanted to help people, Dean. I don't trust him as far as I can throw him either, but it’s possible Cas has a point." 

Dean huffs, grabbing another pair of jeans from the closet and popping the button on his dirty pair. 

Castiel averts his eyes again. "Well, perhaps we should just ask him when he comes back."

"Did he say when?" Sam asks, looking nervous as he rubs at his injured arm. 

“Two days,” Castiel says. “Long enough to round up some more people to infect or whatever he’s doing.”

Dean frowns. “Know what? I might have a shower after all. Croat blood really doesn’t smell great.”

“That’s just you, Dean,” Sam says, and Castiel can’t help but quirk a grin as Dean removes his shirt again and throws it at Sam’s head. 

Castiel stands up. “I’ll go put together something to eat. Hungry, Sam?”

“I could eat a little, I guess,” Sam replies, stifling a yawn. 

The sound of running water comes from the bathroom, and Castiel hurries out before he can think too hard about what Dean is doing in there under the shower.

He ducks outside to grab some leafy greens, and throws together a salad with the remainder of the produce he’d harvested last week—tomatoes, radishes, peppers. He splashes oil and balsamic vinegar on the salad, then fries up three eggs and adds them to the top of three bowls, wishing he had a little more to offer. 

Carrying the bowls carefully between his hands and arms, he balances them through into the other room but stops when he hears Dean and Sam talking quietly. Dean must have only had a quick shower.

“We’re going to have to leave, Dean. It’s the only way to keep Cas and his farm safe. You know that, right?”

“I know that. He’s already lost too much thanks to us being here.” Dean sounds sad, but resigned. 

“Are you sure you’re going to be able to do that? I’m not blind, Dean, I can see what you’re doing here. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger. What about Dad? If we’re gonna go find him, we can’t hang around for your little games.”

Games? Castiel’s heart felt like a weight in his chest. Suddenly he remembers what Sam had said to him earlier, about Dean offering to help him out. Feeling a little sick, he approaches the door and clears his throat. If Dean is going to play with his heart for fun, or to get something from him, he isn’t going to give him the luxury of talking about it behind his back.

“I’m sorry, this is all I’ve got at the moment, until I can check on the trees in the food forest.” He hands the bowls over to Sam first, then Dean, then with a pointed glance at Dean, he leaves the room, fleeing back into the kitchen to eat alone at the table there.

Dean glances at Sam after Cas leaves so quickly. Did Cas overhear something? He hoped it wasn’t what Sam had said about Dean playing games, or whatever.

“Well that was weird,” he says, trying to laugh it off, but Sam’s look is close enough to pity to make Dean squirm in his chair. “Look, it’s not like that this time, okay? Those other times, I did what I had to do to get what we needed, but Cas is…he’s different.”

Sam nods. “He seems like a pretty nice guy. But if we’re going to be leaving, is it a good idea to get attached? I'm just sayin’.” He digs his fork into the bowl of salad and takes a big bite, crunching his way through the leaves.

Dean looks down at his own salad, breathing out a sigh of resignation. Seems he’s a rabbit now. 

“‘m not getting attached,” he mumbles, then stuffs lettuce into his mouth.

By the time they’re both through their salads, Sam is yawning again. 

“Why don’t you go back to sleep, man? The sun’s nearly down again, it’s close enough to bedtime,” Dean says with a smirk.

“Shut up, jerk. You gonna keep watch? Azazel could sneak up in the dark.”

Dean nods. He won’t be sleeping much if he can help it. He knows how twisted Azazel can be, he just can’t think of the guy in any way other than a complete maniac. “I’ll watch for him, don’t worry.” He takes the empty bowls and heads out towards the kitchen, saying over his shoulder, “We’ll talk later.”

Cas doesn’t seem to be around inside the house, but when Dean opens the door outside, he can smell the pungent smoke from the pyre more strongly. He can’t see Cas near the glow from the fire either, where it lies still smouldering, although Cas has obviously been feeding it with fresh wood. 

As he walks down the stairs from the back porch and across the grass towards the pyre, he notices Cas standing near the cliff edge, near where he’d been sitting yesterday. The setting sun is hidden by clouds tonight, but it tinges their edges with bright orange and sends god-beams upwards and across the sky. 

Cas doesn’t turn around as Dean walks across the grass towards him. He doesn’t even turn to look at him as he stands nearby, keeping a distance between them this time. 

“What’d I say?” Dean says, hedging his bets.

Cas huffs, still looking out over the valley. All is quiet down there, save for the occasional bird soaring on the updrafts. 

“Is it true? Have you...seduced people for favors?” he asks quietly.

Dean takes a deep breath. His first instinct is to deny it. But now that he and Cas have shared so much in a short space of time, he finds he doesn’t want to lie about this. Not anymore.

“Yeah, I did what I had to do to keep us fed. I’m not proud of it, but desperate times, y’know. I guess I...used what I had at my disposal.”

“And today...in the garden, before Azazel arrived?” Castiel’s voice is gruff, clipped. “Are you trying to repay me for helping you and Sam? Because I’d rather not just be a stop on your tour—“

“No,” Dean interrupts. “That’s not...just, no. I was helping with the brambles to pay you back, remember? The rest was…I dunno, I just find you kinda...really hot.” He stops himself rambling, feeling a flush rise in his cheeks. He sounds like a teenager, for fuck’s sake.

Cas huffs again and keeps looking out across the valley.

Dean tries a different tack. “Cas, I don’t want you to get hurt. We’ve already fucked up your life by coming here.” Cas had turned his head a little, obviously listening. “We’re planning to leave tomorrow to draw Azazel off. Sam’s still keen to go find Dad, and I promised him.” He steps a little closer. “Come with us, Cas. I wouldn’t feel right just leaving you behind alone.”

“I don’t think leaving is a good idea.” Cas still doesn’t look at him, but his voice is firm.

Dean had been afraid Cas might try to talk him out of it. “Why’s that?” he asks.

“Eden is a naturally defensive position, on the high ground. I have weapons, ammo. We can hold this place for as long as it takes to get an answer out of him, or we kill him.” Cas sounds cold and clinical, and it sends a chill through Dean to hear him discuss killing anything so coolly.

“What do you think Sam and I have been trying to do for weeks now? The asshole uses the Croats like meatshields.”

“I...I don’t just have shotguns.” Castiel says, as though he’s offering Dean a beer rather than weapons.

Dean pauses, wondering all over again how on earth they’d been so lucky to find this man, in all this empty country. “Well? You gonna elaborate?”

“Explosives. Semi-automatic guns—I’ve never shot them, or wanted to. I think there may be some kind of a—” he searches for the word, “—grenade launcher? I haven’t opened that part of our storage for a while, I don’t know what condition they’re in, but—”

“Cas,” Dean interrupts, “you’re awesome.” He grins his widest grin when Cas looks over at him, finally making eye contact. 

Cas takes a breath, then reaches out a hand, hesitating before touching Dean. “How’re you feeling now?” he asks, eyeing Dean warily. “Your eyes seem fine—no redness, anyway.” 

The virus—it’s been a background worry in Dean’s head all afternoon, but between Cas freaking out after they’d finished the pyre, and the discussion with Sam, he hasn’t really thought about it. He doesn’t feel feverish or headachy. And while he’s still pissed at Azazel and this whole situation—fuck, is he pissed about that—he doesn’t feel particularly aggressive.

“How long has it been? Five, six hours? I...I think I’m okay.” Early in the outbreak it had taken longer for the signs to show, but for months now victims had started to turn almost immediately after being infected. Relief hits him, and he huffs out a breath.

Cas smiles slightly, stepping in to meet Dean, then reaching out to take Dean’s hand in his.

“Stay, Dean. Let’s try to talk to him, and if we don’t like what he says, we fight.”

Dean clutches Cas’ hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the tanned skin on the back of it softly. “I still don’t want anything else on the farm getting damaged,” he murmurs.

Cas shakes his head. “Stop worrying about the farm. It’ll be fine, we’ll see him coming for miles, and we’ll take him down one way or another.” 

Dean takes in the earnest look in Cas’ eyes. Under different circumstances, he’d do anything to keep looking into that endless blue forever. But they’re here, and that’s not gonna happen. They’ll still have to leave at some stage, but perhaps he can just let himself have this—let himself give Cas what he needs to take from him. It might break both of their hearts later, but he’ll only regret it if he pushes Cas away now. 

He leans forward, bringing his palm up to Cas’ face, running his thumb over the stubble on his cheek. “Can I kiss you again?” he asks, hopeful that Cas is thinking along the same wavelength.

Cas leans forward until their lips meet, a tentative touch at first, then longer, more forceful as Cas pulls Dean in by the back of his neck. They kiss hungrily, their lips parting and tongues brushing, until—

A scream splits the twilight and they pull apart, eyes wide. 

Dean’s hand flies to the knife he keeps strapped to his thigh, his heart nearly jumping up and out of his throat. He looks around wildly.

Meg stands a little way up the hill, staring straight at them. She opens her mouth and lets out that god-awful noise again, until Cas takes a few steps towards her and shouts at her to get the hell out of there, and she runs off, heading uphill and behind the house.

Cas turns back to Dean, a relieved laugh on his lips. 

“Are you sure we can’t just eat her?” Dean moans, one hand on his chest over his racing heart.

Cas really does laugh this time, the sound warm and happy, and he moves close again and pulls Dean in by the front of his shirt into another long and heated kiss. 

It’s been so long since Dean kissed someone else just for the sake of it, because he _likes_ them, that he’s forgotten how the world around them fades away, the evening sounds disappearing until all he’s aware of is the slide of Cas’ tongue on his bottom lip, the soft moans he makes, the sparking heat low in his own body. 

Dean steps back towards the rock at the top of the cliff they were sitting on last night. He steps down, pulling Cas down to sitting. Then he moves in front of Cas, lowering himself astride Cas’ thighs. He puts his hands either side of Cas’ face, planting a firm kiss on his wide-eyed face. “Is this okay, Cas? Wanna make you feel good,” he murmurs, then gasps as Cas pushes his face up to lick and kiss up the line of his jaw. 

“It’s okay,” Cas gets out between kisses, and Dean starts wondering if he’s going to have more hickeys on his neck than that one time in ninth grade, but just then, Cas bucks his hips upward and the pressure of a noticeably hard bulge in his pants grinds against his ass. He gasps again, twisting his hips and making Cas moan, low and filthy. 

Dean grabs Cas’ face and kisses him more frantically, as what feels like fire races along his skin. He pulls Cas’ t-shirt up and runs his hands along the warm skin underneath, loving the way Cas arches his back as Dean runs his fingers around his sides. Dean can definitely feel Cas hard in his jeans now, and the thought that he can make this strong, gorgeous man react in this way ignites him in a way nothing has for months—years, even. 

Dean sits back a little on Cas’ lap to give himself better access to Cas’ belt as he continues to kiss him, then fumbles with the button on his jeans until Cas pushes his hands away with a huff.

“Let me,” he says quietly, popping the button, then reaching forward to undo Dean’s as well. His eyes track up to meet Dean’s gaze, something deep and vulnerable in his expression that makes Dean’s breath catch in his throat. They both lean in to kiss gently, then more again with small sounds of contentment as Dean fumbles his fingers beneath Cas’ waistband and brushes over the smoothness of Cas’ shaft. 

Cas loosens the pants around his hips enough that Dean can wrap his hand around Cas’ cock and squeeze, making Cas gasp. 

Dean rocks against Cas, the friction of their skin brushing together sending Dean closer to the edge, but when Cas grabs both of them in hand and starts jerking them together, it doesn’t take long for him to come, gasping, his face tucked into Cas’ shoulder. Cas follows soon after, and they cling to each other. 

It’s been so long since Dean has shared any sex more intimate than a handshake, but this…it just feels right, to have Cas’ strong arms wrapped around him. What he wouldn’t have given to have some lube out here, to be able to open himself up and… Well, perhaps there would still be time for that.

A sudden cool evening breeze blows across the exposed skin of Dean’s lower back, and he maneuvers himself around until he’s sitting beside Cas rather than on his lap. He looks out over the valley, ignoring the damp stickiness of his t-shirt as patches of deeper shadow creep across the fields below.

He glances at Cas as the guy wipes his hands carefully on his own soiled t-shirt. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“I’m just wondering whether you’re making it a mission to ruin all my shirts.” Cas says with a dry quirk of the eyebrow. Damn, Dean loves it when he does that. 

He can’t help but chuckle. “I might just be,” he replies, nudging Cas with his shoulder. 

Cas sighs as he looks down at his shirt. “We should go in, clean up.” 

“Yeah, guess so,” Dean says, getting to his feet and making sure his hand wasn’t too sticky before holding it out to Cas and pulling him up as well. “I’ll come back out here, after. To keep watch.”

“You think Azazel will return tonight?” Castiel’s eyes are wide.

Dean shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe? Fucker might do anything, I really don’t trust him at all.” 

He also wanted to keep an eye on the pyre, make sure it burned away as much of the infected corpses as possible. But he didn’t want to mention that to Cas. The first time he’d seen a funeral pyre, he’d reacted in much the same way as Castiel had, and he didn’t blame him one bit—not after the last few days. And it doesn’t ever get easier. He turns uneasy eyes to the fire still burning across the grassy space above the cliff. Tomorrow they’ll have to deal with the other bodies on the driveway, if something doesn’t drag them away during the night.

“I’ll come out with you,” Cas says, making Dean glance back at him in surprise. 

“You sure? You don’t have to do that…” he trails off as Cas takes his hand again, pulling him towards the back door of the house. 

“There’s a daybed out here—sometimes I sleep there on really hot nights. We can take shifts to sleep, okay?”

Dean can’t help his grateful smile. He pulls Cas down as he steps up to the first step to the porch until their lips meet. “Thanks, Cas.”

Dean takes the first shower, using the bathroom upstairs so he doesn’t disturb Sam. When he walks back outside, Cas has brought blankets and pillows out to the wide daybed. He’s set up in what looks like a nest, nursing the bottle of whiskey they’d opened last night. 

“Nice setup,” Dean comments with a grin as he climbs into the daybed, settling back against it with blankets over his legs. Cas passes him the bottle and he takes a hefty swig. 

“It’s better than sitting around the pyre, don’t you think?” Cas replies dryly, and Dean has to agree with that. The pyre still burns—hopefully they piled enough wood onto it that it’ll burn most of the night.

When he looks back to Cas, Cas is watching him, but looks away quickly. Dean holds in a chuckle, trying not to make things awkward. “It’ll burn down through the night,” he says, then takes another drink before passing the bottle back to Cas.

Dean rests his head on the back of the chair part of the daybed while Cas drinks. He can’t see much of the view from this level behind the porch railing, but he can see the expanse of stars between the railing and the roof. He and Sam had been treated to incredible starlit skies as they crossed the desert, but Dean had been too worried about getting distance between themselves and Azazel to really admire them. Stargazing is pretty freaking romantic, though. He glances at Cas, reaching out to grab Cas’ hand in his own, hesitating when Cas flinches and snatches his hand away.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says hurriedly. “It’s just been so long since…” He trails off, flustered, as he puts his hand palm up on the blanket, allowing Dean to drop his hand again and lace their fingers together. 

He glances at Cas’ face to make sure he’s okay with this, then says gently, “You left someone behind in Illinois, didn’t you?”

Cas takes a deep breath, nodding. “My boyfriend, Bartholomew…we lived together, shared an apartment. I tried to convince him to come with me when I left for Anna’s place, but he told me he was sure that the virus would only be around for a few weeks and we’d be back to work in no time. Then just after I got here they closed the borders and stopped the planes.” He passes the whiskey bottle back to Dean.

Dean makes a sympathetic noise. “I'm sorry,” he says, not sure if he should ask more. He takes another drink to give Cas time. 

Cas shrugs. “It was a long time ago now,” he replies, looking out at the stars. "He was okay when the networks went down."

And that, right there, had been the real problem for a lot of people. Dean knows that without communication networks, people in Lawrence had started to move about again to gather their loved ones together, to find each other. The virus had spread rapidly after that, and Lawrence had become a war zone very quickly. He could only assume other towns had suffered similarly.

Cas looks over to Dean thoughtfully. "How about you? Did you have a...a boyfriend you left behind?" 

Dean hesitates, but shakes his head after a short while. Not many people knew that he was bi, but there wasn’t much point in hiding it from Cas now. "No, not for a long time. I was seeing a girl, actually, y'know, before the virus hit. I'm an equal-opportunity kind of guy." He huffs, sure he’s blushing. "Cassie...she was probably the longest I'd spent with anyone, and we only went out for a few months. She, uh…" he paused, then continues, a tightness in his voice. "She didn't make it past the first wave." 

He takes a mouthful of the whiskey, coughing a little after he swallows roughly. He hadn’t seen Cassie infected, thank god. He’d heard about it later, from her father.

“I’m sorry too,” Cas says, giving his hand a squeeze and bringing him back to the present. “But Dean?” he adds, pulling Dean’s hand up to his mouth to kiss the back of it. “I’m glad you found your way here.” 

“Me too,” Dean says, smiling, and he leans over to kiss Cas, the whiskey warm on his lips. They move gently together, then break apart, smiling as their foreheads rest together. 

When Dean pulls back to take another mouthful from the bottle, he has to pause as a yawn takes him by surprise. 

“Are you tired? You can sleep if you want to—I’ll take first watch,” Cas says, amusement clear in his voice as he takes the bottle back. He tips it up to take a long swig. 

“All right,” Dean says, covering another yawn, unable to help the droop of his eyes. The physical labor of the day has worn him out, and he’s more than happy to lie down beside Cas, letting Cas run his hand down his shoulder soothingly. He adds sleepily, “Wake me up when it’s my turn.”

“Okay,” Cas agrees, and Dean drifts, a warm hand in his hair.


	7. Chapter 7

When Castiel opens his eyes, he’s disoriented. He feels warm, safe...and he’s not alone. He half-sits up, startling Dean. 

“Whoa there. Morning, sunshine.” 

Dean sits on the daybed, upright beside where Cas has been lying snug against his hip. He smiles down at Cas, and Cas slumps back onto his pillow as yesterday’s events filter back into his consciousness. 

Azazel. The pyre, Sam’s immunity, Dean… He must have fallen asleep at some point during the night after all. Some watchman he makes. He closes his eyes, not willing to face any of it yet, and sighs as Dean runs his fingers across his hair. When was the last time he woke up beside someone? He and Anna had huddled together to sleep now and then when things got difficult, but before that, not since the day he left Bartholomew in Illinois. 

He'd begged Bart to come with him, to fly to San Francisco before airlines stopped flying, just like they had during the Covid-19 pandemic, years ago. His mom had told him and Anna about that—how she and their dad had weathered their enforced isolation in their student apartment in SF for months, and it was there they'd hatched the plan to build this farm. 

Before he'd left Pontiac, as the situation worsened, he and Bart had argued, something Cas regrets now. Cas hadn't been together with Bart for that long, and they'd never made any kind of declarations to each other, but it had taken a long while for Cas to stop missing him. 

This thing with Dean wasn’t supposed to be anything serious—when Dean had asked to kiss him again last night, he'd needed the comfort, needed to do something wild to feel alive and to drown out the despair. 

But this morning, waking up warm and content beside Dean, it feels like so much more…and the idea terrifies Cas. He can't have this. Not if he wants to keep the farm. 

"You okay?" Dean asks, and Cas realizes he's been frowning. 

"Yeah…yeah, I'm fine," he replies, shoving away the feeling that if Dean leaves, he'll never be fine again.

But he could never ask Dean to stay. He and Sam are on a mission, it would be beyond selfish for Castiel to even consider asking him. Just seeing the way they are together—Dean is always going to look after his brother. Not willing to think further about it, he pulls the blanket up to his chin and turns his face into Dean’s hip again.

Dean continues to run his fingers lightly through Cas’ hair, and just as Cas is slipping back into sleep, Dean takes a breath and says, “You should be proud of this place, Cas.”

Cas doesn’t move, just hums to let Dean know he heard. 

Dean continues after a moment. “The farm, the gardens… you did this all yourself. It’s brilliant.”

This time Cas snorts slightly and opens one eye, peering up at Dean. He’s looking out over the valley, something wistful in his expression. 

“My parents made it, not me,” he mumbles, closing his eyes again.

Dean’s voice rumbles above him again. “But you’ve kept it running, made it work for you.” He pauses, taking a breath. “I’m sorry we came here.” 

This time, Cas opens his eyes properly, squinting up at Dean. “I’m not.”

Dean looks down at him dubiously. “You sure about that? We brought a load of Croats right to you.”

“Well yeah,” Cas concedes, “that part wasn’t great. But you and Sam needed help. And I’ve been alone for a long time. I needed you as well.” 

The admission brings a smile to Dean’s face as he lightly runs his fingers down the curve of Cas’ cheek. He shifts back a little so he can bend down to kiss Cas, his lips warm and soft against Cas’. 

Last night had taken Cas by surprise. He’d been sure that the kiss they’d shared in the garden earlier in the day had been blown away by Azazel’s arrival and the revelations after, but he’d found himself desperate for the closeness of another, and, well, Dean had offered.

Now, kissing him again in the morning light, he concentrates on the now, not thinking of what tomorrow will bring. It’s a pleasant state of denial.

Dean pulls back far too soon, though. “I’m sorry, but I really need to get up. I’ve been dying for a piss for a couple of hours now but I didn’t want to wake you up.”

Cas swats at him, saying, “You should have gone!”

Dean just chuckles as he untangles his legs from the blanket and gets to his feet. “I’ll be right back,” he promises, and disappears inside through the sliding door.

Cas snuggles into Dean’s warm spot, hoping to doze some more, but sleep has been chased away. He sits up, keeping the blanket over his legs and leaning back against the day bed. It had been on the small side for two people to sleep on, but they’d been cuddled up close so it was comfortable enough.

Dean takes a little longer than Castiel might have expected, but when he sees what Dean is carrying when he reappears, he gasps softly. “Here,” he says, holding one steaming mug out to Cas, who accepts it with reverence. How long has it been since someone has made him coffee? 

“Thank you,” he breathes, but Dean waves him off, sitting back beside him and sipping at his own mug. 

“I saw you had a Keurig, but I couldn’t find any pods. I never thought I’d be pleased to say I found a tin of instant coffee in the pantry, but...beggars can’t be choosers.” He smiles into the mug, breathing the steam. 

Castiel huffs. “That Keurig’s ancient, it probably wouldn’t work anyway. I think my mom drank all the pods and couldn’t get more.” The memory surfaces—sitting out here with his mom in the early morning, sipping coffee on one of his more recent visits before things went to hell. He sips at the coffee, wincing a little at the bitter warmth.

They drink quietly for a little while, until Dean asks, “So, we should probably get those other dead guys off your drive.” 

Castiel frowns at him for his phrasing, but sighs in agreement. “I guess. And pull out the guns, see what we’ve got. I’ll check all the cameras and alert systems are working as well.”

The morning passes quickly. They first rake over the pyre from last night, making sure the embers have burned down and finding only piles of charred bones remaining. By the time Dean and Cas get up to the top gate, the sun has risen to above the mountain ridge behind the farm, and it shines down, scorching their backs as they shift wood to build a pyre right on the gravel of the driveway. Between yesterday’s pyre and this one, they’ve used up almost all of his cut firewood, but Dean says the fire needs to burn long and hot.

They light this fire in grim silence again, then turn back to the farm. The burnt remains are shifted to a grave they dig in the softer ground near the collapsed wall of the garden, not far from the hen houses. 

Partway through, Dean looks up and grins at something over Cas’ shoulder. 

“Sammy! Welcome back to the land of the living, bitch!”

Sam huffs, muttering, “Thanks.” He’s still holding his arm gingerly but has a bit of color back in his cheeks, making him look better than he has since they arrived. 

Cas smiles to see him there. “Did you find something to eat?”

“I raided your fridge, yeah.” Sam grins. “Thanks, Castiel. We owe you.” 

Cas shares a glance with Dean, then says with a smile, “It was nothing. I’m glad you’re on your feet.”

Sam nods, looking around at the farm. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

Dean gets back to shoveling earth over the ashes in the grave. “Yeah, it’s a lot nicer now there aren’t dead Croats lyin' around.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Just let us finish this, then I can show you around, okay?” Cas tells him, joining Dean in digging.

They make short work of finishing the grave, resting the shovels against the wall of the garden while they find Sam, standing admiring the view across the valley. As they approach, Sam points down the valley with his uninjured arm. “That’s west, right?” 

“Yes,” Cas says, eyeing the large clouds visible on the horizon. “We might get rain in the next few days.” 

“Really? Up here in the desert?” Dean asks.

“Yes, of course. We don’t get a lot, but I could use more in the dam.” 

He shows Sam around the farm, Dean interjecting now and then. “Cas built that himself!” when they got to the irrigation system for the vegetable garden, and “this was full of brambles yesterday morning,” when they got to the walled garden. Cas has to duck his head to make sure the warmth in his cheeks isn’t visible.

By this time Sam is panting a little from climbing even a small hill. “I...I think I’ll have to sit down for a little while,” he says, and Cas directs him to a bench seat at the front porch, looking out over the vegetable garden. 

Dean helps him to cut some greens and a couple of cucumbers, and they throw together a salad for lunch.

In the afternoon, they lay out the guns. Dean inspects and cleans the shotgun that had jammed yesterday, since he knows more about how it works than Castiel does. Cas is more than happy to let him tinker with it as he pulls the rest of his father’s arsenal out of the safe. Handguns, something larger that he didn’t even know the name of, and the huge, heavy grenade launcher. They look menacing when laid out on the dining table, and he really hopes they won’t have to use many, or any of them. But it’s good to know what they have to hand, at least. They leave the arsenal on the table and head up to the drive to rake over the burnt remains up there, burying it all in the scrub off the side of the gravel.

Back at the house, Cas, Dean and Sam sit outside on the porch, sharing a meal as the sun sets and a cool evening breeze picks up. Cas had been planning to dip into his frozen meat reserves for tonight, but two funeral pyres in as many days has soured that idea. Instead, they make do with mushrooms and vegetables.

Cas tries to keep from touching Dean while Sam is around, but he can’t help himself if he passes by, or if he finds himself staring at the guy’s broad shoulders or the freckles across the bridge of his nose. He hasn’t been near a living soul in a long time, and to be allowed to touch someone, and to laugh with someone, is heavenly.

Watching Sam and Dean interact brings Castiel mixed emotions, though. On the one hand, their banter is endearing, and their stories of the Fort they’d left in Kansas fascinating. But seeing them together, their bond and their devotion to each other, makes Castiel ache for Anna and even further back, for the rest of his family. 

Once again he questions his devotion to this place, whether he can watch Dean walk away, and stay here, alone. What does he owe this place? His parents? For the hundredth time, he wonders what happened to them. The place was left clean, running, a little overgrown but functioning when he and Anna had arrived. Why had they left? He will probably never know. 

“Cas? You okay?” Dean’s concerned voice breaks into Cas’ thoughts, and he realizes he’s been staring out across the shadowed valley.

“Sorry, I was miles away,” he says, shaking his head.

Dean leans over to pour more whiskey into Cas’ glass. “Oh. Couldn’t have been anywhere good, ‘cause you kinda looked like someone kicked your puppy.” 

Castiel huffs, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth before he takes a mouthful of the liquor. Between the whiskey, the meal and the company, he’s pleasantly buzzed. “Actually I was thinking about my parents. Wondering where they went, how they might have handled this.” He takes a deep breath and blows it out. “My mom always said that we needed to keep our hearts and minds open. That friends are the family you choose. Thanks for staying around, y’know, to fight.” He raises his glass, and Dean reaches forward to clink their glasses together. Sam merely nods with a smile, having kept away from the alcohol. 

“Don’t thank us yet, we don’t know what’s coming tomorrow,” Dean says after they drink. 

Castiel stands, collecting their empty plates. “We’ll be ready,” he says, perhaps just the Dutch courage talking, but he feels it in his bones. They’ve got this.

Dean waits until the screen door closes behind Cas to turn to Sam. 

“We need to leave tomorrow morning. Draw Azazel off.”

Sam stares at Dean like he just sprouted an extra head. “What?” is all he manages.

Dean takes a breath, willing himself to stand firm. “I can’t do this. I can’t do this to Cas. We brought this mess down on him—we need to take it away again.”

“Earlier you were discussing weapons like you were all in, Dean. What happened to staying to fight?”

“Remember last time we stayed to fight?” Dean asked flatly.

Sam hesitates, then shakes his head. “That was different.”

“It’s not different, Sam, it’s just the same,” Dean insists, whisper-shouting at Sam while Cas is inside the house. “We tried, back then, but it all ended up for nothing. I don’t want Cas getting involved in all this. What he said about family earlier... You remember what Bobby used to say?”

Sam huffs, sounding unsure. “What, when he used to call us ‘idjits?’”

Dean frowns. “Well yeah, he used to say that a whole lot. But I meant the other thing, about family.”

“Family don’t end in blood?”

Dean points his finger to emphasize his point. “That’s right. And he convinced Ellen, Donna and all of them to stay and fight, rather than get the hell out of there. And what’d it get him? It got him dead!”

Sam stares at him. “So what’re you saying, we should leave Cas alone to die?”

Dean shakes his head, horrified. “No! No, Sam, I’m saying we get the hell out of here and lead Azazel and his fucking zombies the hell away from here! That asshole sure as hell ain’t giving up.”

“This is a bad idea.”

“Well, it’s a helluva lot better than blowing the farm to crap when they get here!”

“What’s a bad idea?” Cas asks from the doorway. “Dean, would you mind…?”

Dean gives a wide-eyed look to Sam, willing him to come up with something and not betray him as he jumps up to open the screen door. Cas comes through with three bowls of blackberry crumble in his hands, with another unopened bottle of whiskey tucked under one arm. Dean takes the bottle before he can drop it.

Sam speaks up, “Oh, I’m just worried that using the grenade launcher might damage the farm.” 

Castiel places the bowls on the table, then looks up at Dean, raising one eyebrow and making Dean’s knees kind of wobbly as he does so. How can the guy take Dean apart with one look like that? It’s infuriating.

“We’ll just have to make sure it’s pointed away from the house, then,” Cas replies, with a fond look at Dean.

“Well yeah, of course,” Dean agrees, sinking back into his chair and accepting his bowl of crumble. He’d managed to pull this together this afternoon using the leftover berries from yesterday, plus some oats and sugar he’d found in Castiel’s freezer. He’d said he’d rather make a pie, but Cas’ parents certainly had been preppers, and Cas hadn’t eaten a whole lot of the stores in his time here.

“I believe Dean’s words were something like, ‘I bet I could blow all those fuckers up with this baby.’” Castiel says dryly, making Sam snort.

“I’ll be careful with it,” Dean says, shoving a spoonful of crumble into his mouth. It isn’t quite his mother’s recipe, but it tastes pretty damn good, all the same.

Cas lets out a groan around his mouthful that sends a shiver right through Dean’s core, and he catches Sam’s eye just as he’s sure his face is flushing bright red. He drops his eyes quickly to his own bowl as Sam laughs quietly again. 

“Know what?” Sam says, “I’m still pretty full from dinner since I didn’t eat for a few days. Dean, you want mine? I might turn in.” He gets to his feet, pushing his bowl across the table to Dean and wincing as he shifts his shoulder.

“Sleep well, Sam,” Castiel says with a smile. 

“Yeah, get your beauty sleep, ya big moose,” Dean says, “You’re gonna need it.” 

“Night,” Sam mutters, heading inside. 

Dean and Cas don’t say much as they eat. Dean enjoys the way the sweetness of the crunchy oats offsetting the tart blackberries. It might be a long time before he gets to eat such good food again. A weight that he didn’t know had been lifted from him from the last few days settles back into place on his shoulders. They’ll never be rid of Azazel. They’ll have to keep running forever.

They clean up, standing side-by-side to wash up and dry plates in the kitchen rather than leave it for tomorrow. Dean pushes his decision and his conversation with Sam to the back of his mind and instead focuses on the soft flirting, the gentle smiles, the splashes of water and light touches that he and Cas seem to naturally fall into. He’s never had a relationship so easy, and while he knows that they’ve only actually known each other a few days and this is very new, he resolutely ignores the feeling that he can see himself doing this for a long, happy time. 

After the kitchen is tidy, Cas moves forward into Dean’s space and wraps his arms around Dean, pulling him into a lingering kiss. “Thank you, Dean. I...I really enjoy having you here.”

The pure happiness in Cas’ gorgeous eyes strikes Dean like an arrow to the chest. He can’t…he can’t do this. 

“Cas, I—” he begins, but Cas interrupts.

“No, don’t apologize again. I told you, I’m glad you came here.” He leans forward, kissing a line along Dean’s jaw, making sparks travel down Dean’s spine. “Come with me?” 

Dean nods. “Where’re we going?” he asks, as Cas takes his hand and pulls him along.

He follows Cas out of the kitchen and up the wooden staircase, continuing along a hallway on the upper level. They pass closed doors to the right and a bathroom on the left, before Cas leads him to what must be the master bedroom. A cozy-looking brick-lined fireplace is on the opposite wall, and a neatly-made bed stands under wide, curtained windows. 

Cas draws Dean inside and closes the door behind them. Dean supposes it’s unlikely Sam will come looking for them, but it effectively shuts out the outside world, and also means that Cas can step forward with his hand on Dean’s chest, pushing him back against the door to kiss him with intent.

Dean hums into the kiss, loving the way Cas grinds his hips into Dean. The friction on the bulge in his jeans sends a shudder through him, and he gasps, pulling back to let Cas kiss along his jawline.

“Cas,” he breathes, “Cas, you sure you want this?”

“Yes,” Cas replies, pulling back a little to peer into Dean’s face. “I need you.”

And just like that, Dean is lost. 

He reaches his hand up to the back of Cas’ head to pull him forward, kissing him deeply, tasting blackberries and sugar on his tongue. Cas shifts back slightly to tug at Dean’s shirt, pulling it over his head and discarding it on the floor somewhere beside them. Cas plants his lips on Dean’s shoulder, stopping Dean from pulling Cas’ shirt up in return. Instead, Dean drags his fingers over the soft skin on Cas’ back. 

“Let me... C’mon, Cas...” he murmurs as he pulls at Cas’ shirt, and Cas steps back to let him pull it up and over his head. They both pause, taking each other in for a moment, both lean with their post-Croatoan diet, but Cas’ strength from working the farm is evident. 

They come back together, mapping each other with their lips and fingers, until Dean finally gets Cas’ jeans button undone. Cas shoves him back with one hand on his chest, popping the button on Dean’s own jeans and pulling them down, along with the pair of borrowed boxer briefs. Dean sighs in relief as his flushed, hard cock is finally free. He steps out of the discarded pants, hoping like hell that Sammy is sleeping soundly right now.

They stand a step apart, taking in the sight of each other. Dean lists a hand again to run his fingers across a tattoo he hadn't been expecting across one side of Cas' stomach—a line of some flowing script. He doesn't miss the way Cas flinches slightly at the touch. 

No matter what happens tomorrow, Dean knows he wants to make Cas feel good—to give him the companionship he craves. He owes him this much for helping him and Sam. 

He leans in to kiss at Cas' jaw, and gradually walks Cas backwards over to his bed with hands on his shoulders. Cas is all gasps and low rumbles as they move, until his knees hit the bed and he sits down, scooting back as Dean climbs onto the bed after him. 

“Lie back, get comfy,” Dean urges him. “Let me take care of you.” Cas leans forward to kiss him again, but Dean pushes him against the pillows with a gentle hand on his sternum. 

Cas watches him with dark eyes as he moves down to Cas' feet, starting by running his hands over Cas’ long toes and perfect arches, following with his mouth. He travels up Cas’ legs, surprisingly firm with muscle, and on, avoiding his groin but licking across a defined hipbone with a wrecked sounding moan. 

Dean is aware of Cas’ untouched cock, lying across his stomach and bobbing upwards every time Cas clenches his muscles, but he passes it by for now. Cas is breathing in short gasps now, his head back and eyes closed as Dean continues, his hands leaving warm trails across Cas' stomach and up toward his chest. 

_Okay, so it isn't all for Cas_ , Dean realizes as he drags his teeth across the dark lines of Cas’ tattoo, loving the appreciative sounds Cas is making. This man is completely smoking hot, and Dean would be lying if he said that getting to do this with Cas had been pretty close to the top of his list for the last two days. His own cock, rock hard, brushes against Cas’ thigh and he has to bite back a “Holy fuck, Cas.” 

He runs fingers lightly over Cas’ left nipple, then pinches it hard, eliciting a gasp from Cas. He moves up to lick over the hard flesh, looking up towards Cas’ face, watching the way his brows furrowed with passion, his mouth opened with gasps and moans. He wants to keep doing this, keep pleasing Cas, night after night. 

The dark memory of what the future holds rears up in the back of Dean’s mind, and he pushes it away, determined to enjoy this now, inching up further so he can lick across a clavicle and suck a mark into the soft skin at the curve of his neck. 

“Fuck, Dean,” Cas gasps out, and Dean runs his hands up to tangle his fingers in Cas’ hair, scratching across his scalp as he licks and kisses at Cas’ jaw, finally makes it to his mouth. He doesn’t linger long, pinching Cas’ bottom lip in his teeth and pulling it back a little.

“Roll over,” he murmurs, and Cas blinks at him for a few moments. Dean raises one eyebrow, adding, “You don’t want the same treatment on the other side?”

Cas just looks at him for a long moment with a small, blissed-out smile, then he runs his long fingers down the side of Dean’s face. “How’d I get so lucky to have you walk into my orchard?” he whispers, and Dean, overwhelmed by a feeling of wanting to deny that was a good thing, banishes it by planting a firm kiss on Cas’ smiling lips. 

“Roll over,” he insists, and shuffles to the side so Cas can do so. As soon as he’s settled, his arms wrapped around a pillow, Dean gets back to work, running his hands over strong, lean shoulders and kissing across the broad expanse between Cas’ shoulder blades. 

He plants kisses down Cas’ spine, kneading the muscles down each side with firm fingers, and when he reaches the dip of Cas’ back, he runs light fingertips all the way over the swell of his ass, delighting in the shudder this pulls out of Cas. 

“Cas?” he asks breathlessly. “May I touch you?”

“Aren’t you...already doing that?” Cas asks in return, lifting his head to throw a disheveled look over his shoulder. 

Dean nearly comes undone just at that look, Cas’ fucked-up bed hair and lust-blown eyes sending a jolt through him. He’s gonna remember this night for a long time, no matter the outcome of tomorrow. “I—I mean here,” he adds, running his fingers over the curve of Cas’ ass again. “You got any lube?” he asks.

Cas’ eyes widen, and he shuffles across the bed until he can reach into a drawer in one of the nightstands. A tube lands beside Dean’s knee, and he wastes no time in lubing up his fingers so that he can slip one finger down Cas’ crack, since he’s lying so nicely on display like this. He teases over Cas’ hole, encouraged by the “Oh, oh god, yes,” that Cas is mumbling into the pillow, and slips his finger past Cas’ rim. 

Cas bucks forward slightly, and Dean pulls at Cas’ hip to get him to hunch up onto his knees, giving Dean access to grab Cas’ neglected dick, and gently start to jerk it in time with his fingering. Cas moans, low and rough, and Dean reminds himself that he’s doing this for Cas tonight, that he doesn’t need to rut his own sensitive cock against Cas’ thigh like he’s desperate to do. Instead, he adds a second finger and pushes down to locate the perfect spot to make Cas see stars. He doesn’t disappoint, almost convulsing on the bed as he cries out, “Dean! Ah, yes, right there!” and it only takes a few moments more before he’s coming all over Dean’s hand and the bedcovers. Oops.

Dean withdraws his fingers, leaning down to place more kisses on Cas’ back, but has to stop as Cas collapses to one side, panting heavily.

“Oh, wow,” Cas manages, rubbing his hand across his face. 

Dean grins, leaning carefully over the sticky patch on the comforter to kiss Cas’ sweaty temple. “You okay there, sweetheart?”

“I am more than okay,” Cas admits, blinking hooded eyes up at him. “I’m tingling all over,” he adds with a short laugh. He reaches out a hand towards Dean’s cock, still hanging hard as he leans over. “Here, let me…” he says as he grabs for it.

“Hey, it’s okay, this was about you,” Dean says with a soft smile. He knows he’ll be remembering this night for a long time to come, and he hopes Cas will as well.

Cas looks up at him, his gaze clear and happy. After a few moments, he asks, “Why don’t you join me in the shower?”

“I dunno, Cas, isn’t shower sex kind of complicated?”

Cas chuckles. “Come on.” He rolls over onto his back with a sigh, closing his eyes. “Let me just bask in the glow a little.”

By the time Cas gets up and drags Dean into the bathroom Dean’s come down a little from his arousal, but it doesn’t take long of Cas soaping him all over with a washcloth for him to be back to full mast and coming into Cas’ hand with a cry after so short a time, it’s almost embarrassing. In his defence, he’d been teetering on the edge for some time now.

When they’re both dry and dressed in sweatpants and shirts, Cas stands looking at the bed with a frown at the wet patch. “I’ll clean that up in the morning. We should keep watch tonight, again.” 

They head back downstairs and out to the porch, settling back onto the daybed under blankets. Once the house lights are off, Dean can see the valley below Eden washed in dim moonlight, and the sounds of nocturnal creatures filters in—an owl, perhaps, he isn’t sure. 

Cas stays sitting up, motioning for Dean to rest on his lap. “You sleep first. I’ll wake you later.”

“You sure? I could take the first shift if you’re tired.” Dean settles down, his head pillowed on Cas’ thigh. Warmth rushes to his cock again at the memory of running his hands up these legs, but he wills it away.

“I’m sure. Not sure I could sleep right now, anyway.”

Dean can hear the smile in his voice, and a feeling of contentment settles over him. This ease, this peace that he feels with Cas—it’s addictive. Like the outside world is on hold, even for a few hours. 

Of course, danger is still out there, and he knows he needs to remember that. The thought of Azazel coming to shatter this illusion of safety settles on him like a heavy weight. This is all his fault, and whatever comes tomorrow will have been brought here directly by him and Sam. 

No. He can’t let it happen. He can't put Cas in even more danger than he already has. If something happened to him...he’d never forgive himself.

Dean drifts off with fingers softly threaded into his hair, and a decision lingering around his thoughts.

Cas comes to consciousness slowly, then all at once. 

At first, it's a lazy, content opening of his eyes, a stretch of his limbs across the daybed, but it quickly becomes a wide-eyed panic as he realizes Dean is gone. 

The sun is well over the horizon—how has he slept for so long out here? 

Dean must have just gone inside to check on Sam. Cas reassures himself that everything is fine, but when he opens the door back into the house, it's deathly quiet. 

The annexe is empty. The bed has been stripped of linen, the room left even more empty than it had been before Sam's stay here. 

They've gone. 

He can't believe it—he had been sure last night that he’d convinced Dean to stay and fight. What they’d shared—he thought it had been a real connection, that he’d felt something for Dean that was more than a passing fling. 

Apparently Dean doesn’t agree.

Back inside the main part of the house, the washing machine is full of linens and dirty clothes. Castiel hasn't even used the washer for months, because of the load on power and the water supply. Perhaps today he can justify a load. He adds soap and turns it on, the machine loud in the silent house. 

He keeps the pain close to his chest until he walks into the kitchen and sees the note on the counter.

_Cas,_

_We’re going to draw Azazel away from the farm. I know we decided to fight, but we’d rather keep you and Eden safe._

_Thanks for helping us._

_I’m sorry._

_—Dean_

Castiel scrunches the note in his fist, his throat tight. Why leave? They can defend Eden—he’d been sure Dean had been on board with that yesterday. He wants to talk to Azazel as well, to find out what exactly is going on with this virus, if he really believes he can find a cure. A sinking feeling begins in his gut as he realizes he’ll probably never know. 

Hurrying outside and to the far side of the porch, he scans the valley. How far could they have got by now? No sign of life along the road, not that he can see from here, anyway. They were heading west, towards the cities on the coast—to find their father.

He should let them go, let them take Azazel and his monsters away from here. He looks up the valley to where the end of his driveway meets the road, then beyond, to the pass that leads west. Gray clouds obscure the sky in that direction, and the air feels thick, heavy with the promise of rain. He's not always great at forecasting weather, but he’s pretty sure there’s a storm brewing out there.

Oh, he’s such an idiot! How did he let himself fall so far? But what they’d shared last night, that was more than just a fling, more than just a last-night-on-earth desperation, wasn’t it? Cas can almost feel the splinters of his heart as he tries to breathe in.

A movement catches his eye on the road in the distance. Is it them? No, it’s moving too fast. A car? It has to be Azazel. 

The car stops on the side of the road, but Cas can’t quite see what’s going on. His dad used to watch for birds in the valley with a large pair of binoculars, didn't he? Cas dashes back inside, quickly running to the study and rifling through the drawers as he tries to remember where he’d last seen the binoculars. A lot of his father’s old stuff had been shoved into a box in the back of the closet in here—Chuck kept just about everything, and most of it was pretty useless and kept in boxes in the shed, but a few things that Castiel remembered his father using, he’d kept in here. It’s been a long while since he’s used any of these things himself, but the binoculars are here, underneath a balled up, faded dressing gown.

His breath catches as he clearly sees his father wandering around the house in this, sipping at his coffee on the porch, or sitting at his computer. 

Why hadn’t he accepted Dean’s request to leave all this behind? This house, the farm, was his parents' dream, never his. But it's all he has right now, and in a world of uncertainty, a man's home is his castle. If they’ve gone, he has no choice.

He rushes back outside and lines up the binoculars to see the road, but the car is no longer there. A cool dread steals over him as he scans up and down the road, but the car is nowhere in sight. 

He moves the binoculars away from his eyes, his breaths short. Could he be on Eden's driveway, or did Sam and Dean draw him off? 

Hurrying back inside and into the study, he dumps the binoculars on the desk and wakes up the computer. The view of the gate is the first to refresh, showing nothing, but what he sees when he scrolls to the camera down the driveway sends a jolt of ice through him. A van is driving up the hill, and while he can't see who's inside it, he can't take the chance that it's a friendly visitor. 

His phone pings with an alert, and he mutters, "Yes, I know," as he runs back into the kitchen to grab as many guns as he can stash around himself. 

He can't seem to catch his breath as he picks up the heavy grenade launcher. No time to plan—he knows he has no hope of holding the farm alone. He could go out and meet Azazel, but if he thinks Cas is trying to hide the brothers, he’ll just steamroll right over him. He hates the idea, but his only option is to hide, or run. 


	8. Chapter 8

Dean hears the crunch of footsteps in the dry leaves. He leaves the knife sheathed at his thigh and instead grips his gun tightly, his knees protesting as he crouches behind a large rock surrounded with scraggly trees, but he stops himself from peeking just yet.

Sam kneels beside him, his face pale and tired. Dean had woken him up before dawn and dragged him out as quietly as they could with as much of their stuff as he could find in the dark. He’d grabbed a few ripe-looking apples from the orchard on the way out and their filled water bottles will have to do until they get to the next town, hopefully not too far down the road. He never did get a chance to take a look at Cas’ maps—something he hopes won’t come back to bite them.

But first, they need to draw Azazel off to follow them, rather than let him go back to the farm. They’d headed down as far as the end of the driveway, but they still didn’t know which direction Azazel had gone after his last attack. They have no choice but to wait here until they see which direction he comes from, then strike out for the hills on the other side of the valley to get away. 

They'd waited all morning, with Dean constantly questioning whether he's done the right thing leaving Cas behind on his own. 

Eventually a van had come along the road, and Dean and Sam had made sure they were seen, even though he wasn’t sure if it was even Azazel at all. The chances of anyone else coming along the road are slim, though. They’d hightailed it across the field and up the hill on the far side of Cas’ valley, and heard the slam of the van’s door echo across behind them. 

Sam had not agreed with this plan. In fact he had barely shut up about it the whole way down the drive and during the long wait for the van—a sure sign that he was feeling better. Dean is grateful for Cas’ help in getting Sam back on his feet, even as he rolls his eyes and tells Sam to shut his cakehole.

They need to know who is following them now—Croats, or someone else. And if he’s honest, he’s kind of hoping it is Croats. They’ve got enough problems, and he’s not in a mood to be friendly.

The footsteps stop, and a voice rings out that makes Dean’s blood run cold. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” The man’s voice is thin and high, young, even. As soon as he comes into view Dean knows he’s a Croat—the red eyes give him away—but he’s just a teenager. If he’s still talking, that means he’s only recently turned, and a fresh wave of hatred comes over him at Azazel’s fucked up chase. How long would this need to go on for? How many people would he murder, just to find him and Sam?

Sam shifts in his spot next to Dean, but Dean holds his hand up and gestures for him to stay put. 

The Croat edges into view, a gun in its hand. That’s new—Croats generally throw weapons aside once they’re so far gone they attack anything in sight, but this guy is obviously still mostly coherent, holding the gun up and towards where Dean and Sam are hiding. 

Dean lifts his own gun. “Stay where you are,” he calls. 

A second Croat appears behind the guy—this time a girl, Dean's age perhaps, long blonde hair. She’s holding what looks like a large kitchen knife in her hand, and Dean wonders all over again where Azazel has found these people. He can’t see any more of them, but Azazel himself can’t be too much further behind. 

The first Croat freezes as he spots Dean peeking out from behind the rock, then keeps inching forward. 

“I said stop, asshole,” Dean says, moving further into the open to line up his gun on the Croat. "I know you have orders not to kill me, but I don't mind ganking you."

The guy just grins, showing his teeth in an almost-snarl, and lowers his gun to fire it at Dean’s feet. Dean jumps aside, and thankfully the guy’s shot isn’t that accurate. A second shot rings out just as Dean lifts his gun to take aim again, but the Croat slumps to the ground face-first. Someone shot him? 

The girl snarls as her companion falls, and she steps over him and lunges towards Dean, knife extended. Gritting his teeth, he fires, stopping her in her tracks with a bullet between her eyes.

Hearing more footsteps, Dean raises his gun to fire at whoever’s coming next, but he drops it again quickly when Sam comes into view around the other side of the rocky outcrop. 

“There were only two of them!” he pants. 

“That was you who shot this guy?” Dean asks, walking out from behind his cover. “Where were you?”

Sam waves back behind him. “Just around the other side there. Not a bad headshot, right?” He grins, even as he rolls his injured shoulder. It’s obviously still bothering him, and Dean scowls.

"Just take care of that arm, bitch. We didn't just spend a couple of days sitting on our asses for you to rip it open again."

Sam gives him the sort of look Dean has always thought of as a bitchface, and turns to scan the hillside in the direction the Croat had come from. “Don't get snarky with me. I know how you feel about leaving. We could have stayed—" 

"No, staying would have only made things worse. Cas is better off with us far away and you know that." 

Sam looks back towards him, his face softening. "I do know that, but Dean, that doesn't make it the right thing to do."

Dean's chest gives a painful lurch, and he swallows against the anger that burns on his throat. This situation he's powerless to control. Why won't Azazel just leave them alone? Sam can’t really be the key to a cure, can he? 

"It's too late now," he mutters, looking down at the poor son of a bitch lying dead at his feet, his head haloed in a pool of blood. 

"Where are the rest?" Sam asks. When Dean glances up, Sam steps away from him, heading back around the outcrop they'd used for cover earlier. 

As Sam disappears from view, Dean calls, "Where're you going?" He stumbles to follow, grabbing their bag of supplies as he passes the rocks where he stashed it.

"There were only two of them," Sam calls from further up the hill. "Where's Azazel?" 

Dean follows him upwards, panting as he steps up the rocky incline. Where _is_ Azazel? Sam's right, the guy should be here gloating by now. He's still not sure why they're still heading _away_ from the road, but he's willing to go with Sam's plan for now.

One last boost onto a large, flat rock affords them a sweeping view above the level of the scraggly treetops. Dean pushes himself up to standing, as Sam slumps on the rock, trying to regain his breath. 

"Dude, take it easy, you were in bed with a fever two days ago." Dean says. Last thing they need is for Sam to burn himself out again. 

"Sure, Mom," Sam gasps out between breaths. "Don’t worry about me. Just…look." He waves a hand out towards the valley. 

Dean turns to survey the view. They're perhaps halfway up the side of the valley opposite Eden Farm, with clear sight of the road running through the middle. Low trees and scrub obscure the ground level on the hill below them, but the flat fields lying alongside the road are clear and empty, and the only sound apart from the low buzz of insects is Sammy hacking up a lung behind him. No sign of a van, or anyone. 

A cool breeze is blowing up the valley, making the hair on the back of Dean's neck stand on end. There are clouds on the horizon—dark, heavy clouds, the first he's seen for weeks that haven't been tiny wisps. A flash of lightning catches his eye. He can't tell if the storm is coming towards them—even if the breeze is blowing this way, that doesn't mean the clouds are. 

He looks the other way up the valley, across to the bluff where he's fairly sure Cas' farm should be, feeling a pang of guilt and regret when he spies the farmhouse peeking out from behind the tall trees along the bluff edge near Cas' walled garden. 

He wonders what Cas is doing right now—he must have found the note. He takes a breath against the ache in his chest. He hopes Cas isn’t too angry, but it’s for the best that they get away. As long as Azazel is still coming for them, that is.

Where the hell is that asshole, anyway? He scans the valley below them, still unable to see any sign of the van or any living soul. Worried now, he looks back towards Eden.

He squints, studying the house. Is that…smoke? Crap, something is on fire up there, if not the house itself, then something else on the farm. 

"Sam?" he calls, his eyes glued to the plume of smoke, becoming darker by the second. 

"What?" Sam struggles to his feet, and Dean points towards Eden in the distance. 

Sam curses under his breath. "A fire? You don't think…?" 

"Could be nothing. Could be on the far side of Cas' place," Dean says tightly. 

"Wait," Sam says, pointing a little to the left. "I can see the van—there, on the drive, up near where it disappears under the trees near the gate."

They both stare in horror for a few more moments, watching as the smoke becomes thicker, darker. 

"That fucking dick," Dean mutters, clenching his fists. "He knows where we are, but he still attacked the farm?" 

The first lick of flame he sees has him dumping his pack and moving, jumping back down from the rock to the uneven slope below. 

"What're you doing, Dean?" Sam calls from above.

Dean looks up at him, only pausing long enough to say, “I’ve gotta go back for him. Wait for me here.” 

He turns and stumbles down the steep incline as quickly as he can, hearing Sam calling out, “It’s too late! Dean, wait!” but he resolutely keeps going. He needs Sam to stay out of this, and he needs to get back up that bluff as quickly as he can.

Castiel's back aches after crouching in the walled garden all afternoon. He'd hunkered down in there as soon as he'd gathered a few things from the house, glad that he and Dean had been too distracted to clear all of the overgrown brambles and bushes. He'd even toyed with the idea of climbing down into the well, but he’s uncomfortable with the idea of being trapped in such a small space with no escape. 

In the end it hadn't mattered. The Croats had gone straight for the house, piling inside with Azazel bringing up the rear, then coming back outside to search the shed. Castiel is forced to sit and watch, angry tears rolling down his cheeks as his gardening supplies catch fire and burn—years of cultivation and careful storage, lost. He wants to attack, but he could never take on all of them. 

Cas watches around a broken section of wall as Azazel and several of the Croats come into view, standing on the far side of the vegetable garden. Azazel lifts his arm, pointing towards where Cas is hiding. 

Cas’ breath catches as the Croats head across the farm, coming in his direction. He needs to hide, and fast. There’s nothing for it but to climb into the well after all—there’s no time to get away through the brambles.

He hurries across the garden and lifts the well’s heavy lid, thanking every deity that there’s no hinges to squeak. Climbing down into the narrow space, he pulls the lid back over the top, plunging himself into darkness as he holds tightly to the iron ladder rungs with the grenade launcher slung over his shoulder and two handguns weighing his pockets down. He thanks Mother Nature for keeping the rain away and the water in the well low for now. 

Tramping footsteps pass several times, barely audible over the hammering of his own pulse in his ears, before he finally works up the nerve to crack open the cover. The coast seems to be clear, but as he moves the cover aside and climbs up, he comes face to face with Meg. She's obviously also been hiding in the forest, and Cas stays very still as he silently urges her not to scream. When she merely regards him with her unnerving stare, he climbs carefully out of the well and replaces the cover. Stretching his back until it cracks, he catches Meg giving him a look that seems to say, "You humans are insane and I'm going to stay well out of it, 'kay?" She turns tail and disappears into the bramble-covered part of the garden with barely a sound. 

Cas shakes his head—that goat is a force of nature. Creeping back to his lookout post near the broken wall, he can see the Croats trampling his garden, standing guard in front of the house with Azazel behind them on the front porch, the smouldering ruins of his shed on the far side of the house. They're waiting, but for what? 

Castiel steels himself for some new threat as he hears crunching footsteps on the drive, but when he sees who it is, he nearly gasps out loud and gives himself away. 

_Dean_. 

By the time Dean makes his way across the field, crosses the road, and climbs the steep driveway, he's drenched in sweat and panting hard. The storm is certainly closer now, the clouds obscuring the sun but the air is thick with humidity. 

Approaching the van carefully, Dean pulls his gun out of the back of his jeans and points it towards the open driver's window. He can't hear any Croats, but they can be stealthy fuckers and he can't really afford to take chances. 

He steps forward, pointing the gun into the van, but it's empty. Where are they? 

With an awful clenching feeling in his gut, he walks forward, past the charred patch on the gravel where the pyre had burned yesterday, and climbs as quietly as he can over the gate rather than opening it. As he moves cautiously on down the driveway, the apple trees move uneasily over his head—the storm can’t be far away now. Leaves swirl, overtaking him in a gust of wind down the drive.

A crunch of gravel makes him spin around, to see one Croat, two, stepping out from behind trees in the orchard. He’s never seen Croats purposely hiding from people to jump them before, but Azazel does seem to have tight control over them, somehow. 

The empty expression in their bloodshot eyes makes his blood run cold, as he raises his gun to aim and shoot at the first guy. The shot takes him in the forehead, sending him crashing onto his back as the second, older-looking guy rushes forward, but Dean is struck from behind on the back of his head before he can take aim and fire. When he turns to look, a third Croat—a middle-aged woman this time—stands behind him, a large wooden plank in her hands. She grins at him as one of the guys crashes into him on his other side, knocking the gun out of Dean’s hand. 

Dean flails to keep his feet under him, but the blow to his head has him seeing stars and swaying. Strong hands grab his arms and pin his hands behind his back.

“Don’t struggle. Walk.” The words are slurred, as though the guy is half-drunk, but he pushes Dean down the hill in front of him, holding Dean’s hands tightly together as they move.

Azazel stands on the path next to the house, and he’s surrounded by Croats. Dean has no idea how he’s managed to get them all here—surely they didn’t all fit in the van. At least five more of them stand in the vegetable garden in front of Azazel. They’ve trampled all over Cas’ plants, much to Dean’s indignation, creating a mess of green and brown mulch beneath their feet. 

Off to the right, Cas’ storage shed is on fire, one side of it burning merrily and throwing black smoke curling into the air above. Behind Azazel, though, the house still looks like it’s standing undamaged, and Dean takes some relief from that. 

The man behind Dean pushes him into the garden as well, bringing him to a stop with a circle of Croats around him. 

“Where’s Cas?” Dean asks as he’s forced to his knees in the dirt. A gust of wind picks up again, and a low rumble sounds somewhere off down the valley. 

Azazel grins triumphantly. “Your little friend? My soldiers have already done a sweep of the house, so I’m afraid there’s a good chance he’s already been dealt with.”

“No,” Dean says, a sick dread weighing down his gut. He struggles in the grip holding him fast. This is Dean’s fault—all of it. They should never have come here—should never have stayed with Cas for so long, or left him behind. And now, who knows what this psycho has done with him? “Why did you still come here? You’re after Sam, why still come to the farm? Cas has done nothing, he doesn’t deserve this.”

“Well, that’s a long story, but I’ll give you the short version since I’m just waiting for Sam to come before I kill you anyway. Y’see, I’m on a mission.”

The wind, fragrant with the promise of rain, sweeps across the farm, ruffling Dean's hair. 

“A mission?” Dean repeats. 

Azazel nods, pacing back and forth in the dirt with his hands clasped behind his back, like he’s in front of a class of unruly students instead of the infected. “Yeah, like a...a sacred quest, I guess you could say. See, the human race is like poison on this Earth. We destroy everything we touch—we are parasites.” He spits this last word out like it tastes bad. “And I,” he adds, pointing to himself, “am the cure.”

“The cure?” Dean manages to choke out around his horror. “There is no cure, you sick son of a bitch. You just made that shit up to get inside Cas’ head.” 

Azazel grins, and shakes his head. “Oh no, there is a cure.” He steps closer, leaning down to murmur in Dean’s ear. "Let me let you in on a little secret, Dean. The cure is death."

"What?" Dean asks shortly. 

Azazel moves back, so he’s looking right into Dean’s face. "It needs to go. All of it. And it’s well on the way."

Dean can see the absolute conviction in Azazel’s eyes, and it makes a shudder pass through him. "So, let me get this straight. You…you created Croatoan? To wipe humans out?"

Azazel straightens up and steps back, falling into the villain monologue like he’s born to it. “Oh no, it’s always been here, lurking. I just rediscovered it, altered it a little—a virus that affects the nervous system, makes people angry, violent. With a bit of tweaking, I was able to control them. People are already so suggestible, so easily swayed into panic and violence. All it took was a little encouragement, and a repelling signal to keep them away from me.” Azazel grins, his eyes feral behind his yellow glasses. "And now I am personally ensuring its spread.”

As though to underline this revelation, thunder rolls across the valley, much closer now. 

Fuck, this guy can talk. Dean wonders if he keeps him talking for long enough, he might be able to see a way out of this mess. “What happens then? You get to live in this empty world with your Croatoan buddies?”

“No,” Azazel says simply. “When my work is done, I’ll die too. God will take over. And I don't need annoying little pricks like your brother fucking it all up with their freak immunity.” 

Dean stares at him, not quite believing that one man can be so delusional. He can’t let this psychopath anywhere near Sam. “You'll never get him! He's far away by now.” Dean hopes with all of his heart that's the truth. 

“Somehow I doubt that. He'd never leave you behind, just as you didn't leave him. He'll be along. And when he does, you'll be waiting for him.”

Azazel pulls a wicked-looking knife from a sheath at his belt, holding it up and turning it so that it glimmers in the fading light. “Perhaps you won’t be so happy to see him this time, though.”

Dean recoils, trying to break free of the Croat behind him, but the guy has incredible strength. They’re gonna turn him? Make him kill Sam? Raindrops begin to fall on Dean's face, and he glances up at the storm front rolling in. 

Azazel reaches out, placing the tip of the knife against Dean’s throat. "Don't struggle, now," he says, still grinning. “All it takes is a little cut, my friend here will bleed on you, and you'll feel all better.” 

The sharp tip of the knife breaks skin, making Dean hiss a little, but a movement behind Azazel catches his eye. Azazel must notice him react, because he pulls the knife back, turning to look over his shoulder. Then, the world explodes. 

As Dean is thrown back into the ground on top of the Croat holding him, all he can think of is the figure of Cas standing there, by the garden wall. He'd had something on his shoulder, something that shot fire and had just apparently blown a hole in the vegetable garden, and the Croats who had been standing there. 

What just happened? As Dean recovers his senses, he sees Azazel has also been flung to the ground, and he's dropped the knife—and it's sticking out of the soil just to the left of Dean's hip. He lets out a short, relieved breath as he grabs it and gets to his knees, crawling over to where Azazel lies, groaning with his face in the mud. 

He quickly scans the area, seeing Croats—and _pieces_ of Croats—lying around a small crater in the center of the garden. Cas fumbles with something heavy over by the driveway, but Dean can barely see him over the rain that is now sheeting down. A brilliant flash is followed by a loud crack of thunder only a second later, as the remaining living Croats start to shift and groan around Dean. 

He looks down at Azazel again—his tormentor, the guy that destroyed the world. So the Croats stayed away from him because of the signal coming from his watch? 

Dean flips the knife, and instead of stabbing with the pointy end, he brings the butt of the knife handle down on Azazel's wrist once, twice, with a satisfying crunch. He smashes the watch again, pleased when the screen cracks, before Azazel realizes what has happened and jerks his arm away. He stares at the broken device, his face as thunderous as the sky. 

"What have you done?" he demands over the drumming rain. 

Dean scrambles back in the mud, slipping as he gets to his feet. The Croats around him are looking around, confused. "That man is the reason you are here, that you are turning!" Dean shouts at them, pointing at Azazel. One by one, they turn to stare at him. 

"No, that's not true," Azazel begins, but another lightning flash reveals red-eyed Croats advancing on him from every side. 

And with a sickening shout and a muffled scream, the Croats pounce on Azazel and tear him to shreds. 

Castiel watches on in horror as the Croats attack Azazel. He’s only just got over his terror at seeing Dean thrown back by the grenade blast, but to his great relief, Dean stumbles to his knees and destroys Azazel’s device as the rain starts coming down. 

He’s not even sure that Dean knows he’s there, but now, he desperately needs to make himself seen. He shouts to Dean, waving frantically—if he can just get Dean far enough away from the pack of Croats, he can fire again. He fumbles with the grenade launcher, trying to remember how he loaded the thing in the first place. Eventually he slides the barrel to the side and slips the other shell inside, locking it back in place. Dean is closer to him now, and he takes careful aim, then squeezes the trigger, desperately hoping not to hit the house. 

The explosion as the launcher fires is just as loud as the last time, even with a storm going on around him, but he’s grateful it had fired at all—he hadn’t been sure it would in the pouring rain like this. He steps back with the kick but keeps his feet under him, watching as a second crater appears in his vegetable garden. The Croats, and whatever is left of Azazel, disappear in a cloud of dirt and mud. 

Castiel tries to wipe the water out of his eyes with his sleeve but it’s no use, the rain is still hammering down. He startles as a body looms out of the corner of his eye, but it’s Dean. Dean, alive, and in mostly one piece. Castiel swallows the tight feeling in his throat and drops the grenade launcher to the ground, as Dean slams into him, hugging him tightly. 

“You came back!” he shouts at Dean over the rain, taking in the water soaking the hair to Dean’s head and running down his face, his smile bright. He’s never seen a more beautiful sight. "You made it!” 

“I made it?” Dean replies incredulously, taking Cas’ face in one dripping hand, and presses their mouths together in a bruising kiss. When Dean pulls back, he rests his forehead against Cas’ for a moment. “I thought you were dead!”

“You left,” Castiel says, sounding a little more petulant than he meant to, but Dean's face fell. 

“I’m so sorry, Cas. We never should have...I didn't expect him to—”

Castiel silences him with his fingers on Dean’s lips. "Dean, you came back. Thank you." He leans in to kiss Dean again, but just as Dean makes a contented sound and leans into it, an awful scream sounds from nearby. 

Castiel and Dean jump apart, turning to see Meg standing in the walled garden's entrance. Castiel follows her gaze to see one of the Croats, covered in mud, running at them. 

“Dean!” Castiel shouts and grabs Dean’s shoulder to spin him around, and the Croat snarls at them, his bloodshot eyes wide as he reaches out towards them. 

But just as he's about to crash into them, a loud crack sounds, and the Croat crashes into the mud in a spray of blood. 

Castiel gapes at the dead Croat, as he realizes that what he'd first thought was a crack of thunder, had in fact been a gunshot. He looks up the rain-soaked hill to see someone standing there under the trees. 

“Sam?” Dean breathes, as his brother collapses to his knees on the driveway. Castiel stumbles after Dean, back to the driveway and up the hill. 

The rain seems a little lighter now—the worst of the storm front has passed over the farm, but there are still rivulets of water running down the side of the driveway, soaking Castiel's boots as he runs through it. 

Sam is sitting on the gravel, his arms on his knees and his hair dripping onto his face. A rifle lies discarded beside him, and although he looks pale as he lifts his face, he smiles when he sees Dean and Castiel. 

“Sammy, what the fuck are you doing here?” Dean demands, dropping to his knee and hugging his brother around the shoulders. 

“Ow! Get off, jerk!” Sam says, muffled underneath Dean's arm, but he pats Dean’s shoulder before Dean straightens up and gets back to his feet. “Did you really expect me to stay put down there when you were heading back into this?” 

Dean huffed out his relief, wiping the rain out of his face with both hands. 

“Thank God you got here when you did, though,” Castiel says, his face grim. 

“Yeah, where'd you get this thing from anyway?” Dean asks, nudging the rifle with the toe of his boot. 

“The van,” Sam replies, going a thumb over his shoulder. “By the time I made it up the hill, there were no Croats in sight, so I went through the van and found this. I heard the explosions up here, though. What the hell happened?” 

Castiel shares a glance with Dean before Dean's wide grin appears back on his face. “The fucking grenade launcher, man! He just yippee-ki-yay-ed those motherfuckers!”

Castiel rolls his eyes at Dean's trigger happy enthusiasm, and says, “Let's get inside out of the rain, and we can all share some stories, okay?”

Drenched to the bone, Dean checks to make sure none of the Croats are still alive before they all stagger inside through the mudroom. Dean notices that Castiel tries not to look at the mess of his garden and the burnt-out shell of the barn as they hurry to the shelter of the house. He wants to put his arm around Cas' shoulder, but even though he's just been kissing Cas, he's really not sure if more is welcome. 

They take off as much of their wet clothing in the mudroom as modesty allows. As he strips, wringing out his plaid shirt, Dean aches deep in his chest. He brought this on Cas—all of it. His self-loathing only gets worse as he moves inside in boxers and his wrung-out t-shirt to see the mess the Croats left. 

Everything is broken, dumped on the floor. The kitchen has been upended, plates smashed and food on the floor. In the living room there's a dead silence. Books are strewn all over. 

Dean hangs back from Cas, who is standing still in the center of the room, his back to Dean. He lets out a low whistle. "They weren't just looking for us. Azazel must have told them to rip this place apart."

“Damn,” Sam says from behind Dean as he also enters the room. “Was that clock an heirloom, Cas?” 

Dean curses under his breath as he sees the broken casing of the clock lying on the hearth, the golden hands bent at odd angles. 

Cas turns around, devastation written across his face. “Yes,” is all he says, as he hurries into the small office, his wet jeans leaving dripped trails across the floorboards. 

Sam and Dean share a grimace before Sam says, “I’ll take the shower in there first.” He hurries off to the annexe, while Dean follows Cas. 

It seems the Croats didn't smash up much in here. Sure, there are cables and junk all over the floor, but the monitors are still on and showing the gentle rain now falling in the orchard and on the driveway. The van sits, silent and empty, near the gate. 

Castiel lets out a shaky breath and switches the view with a few clicks to show the crater where the vegetable garden once was. Water is pooled there, around the mangled and dismembered bodies. He quickly switches the view away, back to the gate, and turns, sweeping past Dean and back into the living room. 

“Cas, wait.” Dean jogs a few steps to catch up with Cas before he climbs the stairs. 

Cas doesn't turn around, but stops with his foot on the first step. He takes a breath, but doesn’t say anything as he moves up another step. 

Dean lunges forward, grabbing his wrist. “Please, wait. I want you to know I would never have…” He flounders, suddenly not sure what he's trying to say. He tries again. “I wanted to lead him away from you. I already ruined your mom’s garden, the bees, all that...and I couldn’t let him hurt you more, after everything you did to help us, and—”

“You said you would stay,” Cas interrupts, stopping Dean abruptly. “And you left.”

Dean can’t help the anger that bubbles to the surface. “You think it was easy to walk away from you? It killed me, Cas. Every step away from here that I took. But I couldn’t let him hurt you.”

Cas turns, his face stoic. “And yet you still left me behind. Just like everyone else. My parents, Anna…” He trails off. 

Dean takes a deep breath, trying to will his heart to slow, but it goes on hammering. “Azazel already destroyed another home for us. I had to watch them die, Cas. We were ready for a fight, but Bobby told me to take Sam and get out, and now I understand why. He was protecting us because he loved us.” His voice cracks on the last few words, and he swallows hard, trying to banish the memories of screaming and bloodshed during their flight from Lawrence. “And he didn't make it out of there himself.”

Castiel stares at him. 

Dean hesitates, but goes on, scrubbing a frustrated hand across his wet scalp. “I didn’t want you to be another person killed because of us. We brought this down on you. I had no idea Azazel was such a fucking psycho, that he’d…” He trailed off again, aware that Cas was still standing there, still and quiet. “Come on, man, I need you to give me something, here. If you don’t want us here, now that it’s all over, we’ll go. I’ll just go grab Sam and we’ll—”

“No.” Castiel’s interruption brings Dean up short. Cas’ eyes flick downwards. He breathes in, then out, in a sigh. “I don’t want to force you to leave again. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need to. But Dean…” He looks back up to Dean, his eyes giving away his pain. “I can’t do this with you...whatever it is that we’re doing…” he trails off, taking another breath before continuing. “I can’t do it if you’re just going to be leaving again. I’m sorry, I—” 

“Okay,” Dean says, interrupting him in turn. He doesn't need to hear Cas pour any more of this out to know just how much he's fucked this up by leaving. He nods, stepping back from Cas, from where he stands still on the stairs. “I understand. I’ll just...” He trails off, hooking one thumb over his shoulder. 

Cas' looks miserable as he stands there, not saying more. 

Dean looks up at him longingly for a few more moments, but eventually turns and starts walking across the living room, heading for the annexe. He honestly doesn’t blame Cas for not wanting to continue whatever they’d had for the last few days. 

But damn, the rejection still stings.

He only gets a few steps away, though, before he hears Cas say, “Dean?”

He stops, looking back over his shoulder.

“Thank you for coming back for me,” Castiel says into the quiet of the house. 

Dean inclines his head in half a nod, and continues on his way without speaking, in case the simmering pain beneath his skin comes spilling out. 

Back in the annexe, Sam is in the shower. Dean looks at the bed, standing empty of sheets, and tries to take a deep breath to let out some of the tension that is threatening to seize him up. Some kind of friend he is, some kind of brother. He's supposed to be protecting Sam, and instead nearly got him killed. _Again_. Now he's led Croats right to Cas' farm and failed spectacularly to lead them away—and Cas had to blow away half of his own farm to get rid of them. 

He sinks down on the edge of the mattress, his head in his hands. If he can't protect the people he loves, then what’s the point of any of it? He might as well have died protecting the Fort with Bobby and Donna and the rest. Even the fact that Azazel is dead feels like a hollow victory when he considers the state of the farm, and how much he’s hurt Cas.

He and Sam both really just need to get the hell out of Cas' life and head on down to the coast. His dad's down there somewhere, and Sam can still help people with his immunity. That's the only purpose he has left right now, and he clings to it like a lifeline. 

He rubs the wetness away from his eyes as he gets to his feet, then goes to the closet to fetch a fresh set of sheets he saw in there yesterday. By the time Sam emerges from the bathroom, the bed is remade and Dean has found a clean pair of sweatpants and a shirt from Cas' dwindling clean clothes.

Sam takes one look at Dean’s face and stops in his tracks, his brow furrowed. “What is it?”

“Nothin’,” Dean mutters, shouldering past his brother and into the steam-filled bathroom, he’ll miss this hot water when they’re back on the road.

“No, really, Dean, what happened? Did you and Cas—?”

“I said it was nothing, Sammy. Just leave it,” Dean says shortly, and closes the bathroom door with a bang.


	9. Chapter 9

While Castiel feels more comfortable after a shower, he doesn’t feel any better about what had happened with Dean. The guy had lied to him, left him without a goodbye, and it wasn’t just something he could forgive in a hurry, even if Dean thought he was doing the right thing. He chooses to focus on that, letting his anger simmer, rather than let himself remember that he'd just nearly blown up his house with a grenade launcher.

At the same time, Dean _had_ come back—they both had—and if they hadn't there was a good chance Cas wouldn’t still be here now.

He tries to make sense of his feelings as he makes his way back downstairs, hearing the water running through the house—someone is still showering. He quickly throws together a few vegetables into a salad and takes it back upstairs with a bottle of whiskey, determined to forget the day’s events alone. 

His room is stifling, though. Even after he opens the windows wide to allow the afternoon breeze to blow through, cool after the storm and laden with the promise of more rain overnight, he can’t shake the feeling of these walls closing in, crushing him. 

This room, his bed, it now holds the memories of last night—Dean’s hands so gently on him, their shared gasps and shuddering releases. Dean had given him everything he’d asked for, except a promise to stay, he now realizes. He must have known all along that they’d be leaving before the morning, and the idea of their lovemaking being his farewell pulls a wrenching sob out of Castiel that he covers with one hand as tears leak out of him. He had _loved_ having Dean touch him, loved talking with him. He needs him again, even now. But the idea of having to say goodbye again is already painful enough.

He watches the evening steal across the valley from his window, lost in the melancholy of being alone once more. When he finally crawls into bed, visions of Croats attacking him prevent him from sleeping, even as he blows them up in his exhausted half-dreams. When he eventually drops off, he dreams in full color of Croats surrounding Dean, diving on him and pulling him apart while Azazel looks on, laughing. Cas screams out and wakes up with Dean’s name on his lips, sitting bolt upright.

Going back to sleep is out of the question now. He gets up, padding downstairs to fetch water, and opens the door to the porch as quickly and quietly as he can. He crosses to the far side of the porch, passing the rumpled pile of blankets still on the daybed from the previous nights’ sleep, looking out across the darkened valley. Clouds still obscure the sky to the east and away down the valley, but above him is clear, the Milky Way stretching across the open expanse. Cas has always loved to see the stars from here—even before Croatoan, they were brilliant this far away from the cities on the coast. He shivers as a cool breeze blows up from the west, the rain earlier having chased the heat of the day away.

A snort and shuffle behind him startles him. He turns quickly, surveying the porch behind him, but sees nothing.

“Cas?” a muffled voice comes from the daybed.

Oh no. “Dean? What’re you doing out here?” Cas asks, moving away from the railing but keeping his distance.

Dean shuffles to a sitting position, rubbing his eyes in the darkness. “Sam, he—” He pauses to yawn, covering his mouth with one hand. “—he’s taking up the bed.”

Cas nods, although Dean probably can’t see him in the starlight. “I couldn’t sleep, s-so I…” he says, his teeth chattering in the cool breeze, trailing off when Dean moves the blankets away from one side of the daybed, making room for Cas. “What’re you doing?” he whispers, knowing the answer anyway.

“Come on,” Dean says, patting the space next to him. “It’s okay, I’m not gonna make a move on you or whatever. You’re cold.”

Cas stays in place, wondering whether this is really what he needs. 

“Come on, don’t just stand there all night, dude. Watching people sleep is kinda creepy,” Dean says, still holding the blanket open.

Cas closes his eyes for a moment, wondering if he will ever be able to keep this man from getting under his skin. He steps forward, climbing onto the bed beside Dean, letting him tuck his arm and the warm blanket around them both. 

“This okay, Cas?” he murmurs, his arm around Cas’ back so that Cas is tucked into his side. 

But Cas finds himself unable to even form words. Dean’s warmth envelopes him, thaws his tension and melts his hesitation away. He merely hums contentedly, and settles finally into an easy, dreamless sleep, his head pillowed on Dean’s shoulder.

The clean up is slow at first. The morning after the attack, Dean wakes up to Cas still snuggled into his side, and he runs one sleep hand down the side of Cas’ face before Cas opens his big, beautiful blue eyes and smiles at him like he’s the answer to a prayer. 

Dean had been shocked at how quickly Cas had dropped off in Dean’s arms last night—he really must have been exhausted. It would never stop amazing Dean how just touching another person could bring such comfort, and he resolves to help Cas in this way as much as he’d let him before it’s time to leave.

They untangle themselves from the blankets somewhat awkwardly—Dean’s still not really sure just how much intimacy Cas is okay with now, but after their exchange last night, he’ll let Cas take the lead on that. They go about their morning ablutions, Dean finding a change of clothes in the pack Sam had brought back with him, then they meet again in the still-messy kitchen to eat the last of the blackberries and other fruit Cas had stored in the fridge. 

After sweeping all the broken plates and glass from the floor, Cas and Dean sit at the table with coffee. Dean yawns as he wonders where his moose of a brother is. No point waking the poor guy up, they’ve all had a busy few days.

He glances at Cas, who sits quietly, drinking his own coffee. Dean’s not really sure what he can say to Cas to make anything better, but Cas doesn’t seem to actively hate him, so that’s something. 

“It’s funny,” he says, holding his warm mug in two hands, “I should be happier that Azazel’s gone, I mean, I should be freaking ecstatic!” he chuckles. “But all I am is tired. So very, very, freaking tired.”

Castiel nods, sympathetically. “You’ve been running for a long time, Dean. You’re allowed to rest now.” 

Dean sips at his drink, then says, “Guess so.” He wishes that was true.

Cas seems to hesitate for a few moments, then says, addressing the words Dean didn’t say, “How long before you leave for the city, do you think?” 

Ordinarily Dean might have replied with some kind of quip about Cas trying to get rid of him again, but under the circumstances, he bites his tongue. “Well, there’s no real rush now, is there? We’ll stay to help you get back on your feet. Unless…” he trails off, not sure if he should even suggest what had been plaguing his thoughts all morning.

“Unless what?” Cas asks, his eyes wary.

“Come with us, Cas. I know, you don’t want to leave the farm, but it’s better, safer, if we’re together. You, me and Sam.”

Cas is already shaking his head before Dean finishes speaking. He takes a shaky breath before he says, “No. No, I’m sorry. Please...please don’t ask me to leave the farm.” He hitches in another breath as he gets to his feet. “I need to go take a look at it.” 

Shit, Dean’s put his foot in it again. He stands up as well, holding a hand out to touch Cas’ arm, but pulls it back as Cas turns away towards the back door. “No, that’s okay, I’m sorry,” he says, wishing he’d kept his damn mouth shut. “We’ll help, whatever you need. Besides,” he adds as he follows after Cas, “I think Sam’s gonna need a few more days’ sleep before we go anywhere.” 

Cas doesn’t reply, merely steps into his work boots and opens the back door, letting in the cool morning breeze.

Dean follows, unsure what to expect outside. The sun is only just up over the hill, but the sky is bright and blue. In front of the door lies the mud-pit that was once the vegetable garden, a deep hole partially filled with water. The rest of the battlefield is covered here and there with bodies, or pieces of bodies. The rain has washed away most of the blood, and there doesn’t seem to be a smell to it, at least, not yet. But Cas and Dean only stare around in horror for a few moments before Cas turns back around away from the carnage, a hand over his mouth.

“What have I done?” he chokes out bending over like he might be sick again.

Dean puts a hand on his shoulder, saying, “No, Cas. This was my fault. You saved our lives!”

“Those people, they didn’t ask to be...they were innocent.” Cas grits out, breathing hard. He walks back into the house. “I can’t...I can’t look, I’m sorry.” 

Dean steps inside too, waiting for Cas to toe off his boots again. “It’s okay, Cas, there’s no rush.”

Cas whirls around, demanding, “How am I going to deal with all that, though? There’s so many of them.” His voice breaks, and Dean recognizes the wild look in his eyes as the start of a panic attack.

He reaches out, puts one hand on Cas’ shoulder, and when he doesn’t flinch away, pulls him into a hug. “Hey, hey,” he says, rubbing his hand on Cas’ shoulder. “Let’s not do this today, okay? Let’s go back to bed, start over tomorrow.”

Cas takes a few shuddering breaths against Dean’s neck, before he nods. “Will, um…” Cas says in a small voice. “Will you come, too?” He lifts his head, looking at Dean with red eyes.

Dean wasn’t expecting an invitation, had thought he might have gone out and made a start on the mess outside, but he nods. “If that’ll help you, of course I will.” 

“Okay.” Cas turns, leading Dean to the stairs.

As they start walking up, Dean sees Sam at the door of the hallway leading to the annexe, his eyebrows raised as he watches them. Dean shakes his head, giving him his best _don’t say a word_ look as he follows Cas up the stairs. Sam huffs out a quiet laugh behind Dean, but keeps quiet. 

Up in the master bedroom, Cas doesn’t say anything, just crawls into his bed fully clothed and pulls the covers up to his face. Dean sits awkwardly on the edge of the bed, not sure what Cas had in mind for him up here, but Cas rolls over, holding up the blankets and inviting Dean in. Dean joins him, shuffling in until he’s face to face with Cas under the covers. He reaches one hand up, his fingers lightly tracing Cas’ face as he brushes a curl of Cas’ hair behind his ear. 

“You okay?” he murmurs.

Cas shakes his head minutely, then sighs. “I’m fine.”

Dean shifts until his forehead touches Cas’. “Sleep. I’m not going anywhere.” 

That evening, Dean walks downstairs to find that Sam has been busy cleaning up inside the house. The living room looks almost back to normal, with the books on their shelves and the broken pieces of the clock and other keepsakes swept up and put aside. The kitchen also looks tidier, and Dean fries up a few eggs to take back upstairs to Cas. The rest of the cleaning can wait until tomorrow.

In the morning, though, Dean wakes up alone in Cas’ bed. He heads downstairs to make coffee, but doesn’t find Cas until he goes outside. 

It’s later than he thought when he gets out there, the sun already high in the sky. The hole has now mostly drained of its water, but the dead still lie around, starting to attract flies. They’ll have to deal with them today.

Dean finds Cas standing in front of the remains of the shed, trading quiet words with Sam. The kid looks good, to Dean’s surprise—the color is back in his face along with a grim smile when he sees Dean approaching. 

Cas turns too, a guarded sort of warmth in his gaze. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey. Y’all got started without me?” Dean asks, joining them in front of the charred building.

“Not really,” Sam says. “The shed is a mess, but the walls are still mostly intact. I can’t lift anything with my arm yet, but you and Cas might be able to see what survived.”

Dean looks back to the buckled wall of the shed, the iron sheeting fallen in and blocking the doorway. It seemed the rain had put out the fire before it could do too much permanent damage. 

He and Cas lift a few of the sheets away from the entrance, releasing clouds of ash and smoke that had been trapped inside. The fire ripped through everything stored at the end of the building furthest from the house—making Cas gasp as the shelves are revealed, tipped over onto the floor. 

“My...my mother’s seeds, all her work. It’s gone, look.” Cas lifts the fallen remains of shelving, revealing the broken jars beneath it. But there are jars intact, a few, at least. Dean helps Cas to shift the shelves aside, then he bends down, holding a jar up to Castiel. 

“The label is gone,” Cas says as he turns it around, his voice tight. 

Charred remains are all that remain of the labels Dean pulls up with the remaining jars, but Cas is able to identify some of the seeds by shape, some even by smell. 

Dean tries to make light of it all as Sam picks through the ash-covered items at the other end of the shed. “That’s okay, we’ll just plant the unidentified ones and see what comes up, right?”

Cas shook his head. “It’s not that easy, Dean. My mother kept strict notes on planting particular crops at certain times of year. These could be anything.”

“Then we plant a few of each every couple of months. The notes can be rewritten, right?” Dean asks, tilting his head down until he makes eye contact with Cas. 

Cas nods, but smiles, sadly. “What’s this ‘we’ you’re talking about?” he asks. “You’re leaving again, aren’t you?” 

The words feel like they’re stabbing Dean through the heart. “Not yet,” he breathes.

Later, they put on all the protective gear they can find and get to work, widening the hole in the vegetable garden. Sam steps away from this process, since his injury still isn’t healed enough, but by the time he comes back out in the late afternoon after a rest, Dean and Cas have laid the bodies of the dead in the hole with as much respect as they can, despite some of them missing limbs or heads, and filled in the hole. Dean has to steel himself to deal with it all, keeping the sick feeling in his stomach at bay. He isn’t sure whether he should be proud of that, or worried that he’s getting used to having to deal with dead bodies.

Cas continues scraping up as much of the displaced soil as he can from the surrounding area to recreate the shape of the garden, while Dean walks over to Sam.

“How’re you feeling?”

Sam wrinkles his nose at the filthy state of the coveralls Dean is wearing. “I’m okay, feeling a lot better. Good job out here. It almost looks back to normal.” 

“Yeah, we got it done. Cas says there was a box of irrigation pipes and stuff in the shed, so we should be able to rig it back up and replant, if it’s still there.” Dean grins, pleased with the progress they’ve made. 

Sam nods, then says, “That’s good.” He takes a breath before continuing. “Dean, I think I should go soon.”

Dean looks back out to where Cas is still shoveling, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the reconstructed garden, and golden light appears to surround the space where Cas stands. He replies to Sam with a smile. “Go where?”

“To San Francisco.”

Dean turns to look at him, surprised. “We will, sure. I just want to help Cas get the shed sorted out first.” 

Sam smiles, looking out to where Cas was now walking back towards the shed with his shovel. “No, I mean I’ll go. You should stay here with Cas.”

A cold kind of shock grips Dean as he takes in Sam’s words. “What? What’re you talking about, man? We’re going to find Dad. I’ve gotta get you to the people who need your immunity!” 

Sam turns back to face Dean, sure and patient. “Dean, this isn’t about me, or Dad. I can look after myself, anyway. You and Cas—you’ve really got something here, that’s obvious.”

“What? No. He doesn’t want that.” Dean tries to turn away, following the path towards where Cas has disappeared into the shed.

“No, Dean, he does. He’s lost so much—he needs you. Plus, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you as happy as you are here."

Sam's not wrong. They'd really hurt Cas by leaving without him—the poor guy has had everyone leave him, and Dean’s heart breaks all over again as he realizes he’s the latest in a long line of people to do so.

Sam continues softly, "You said he won’t leave the farm, but you should take the chance to stay here with him.” 

Dean looks up with a start at a loud clang from the shed, followed by Cas cursing loudly. He emerges a few moments later, heading towards the house, his face lighting up as he sees Dean and Sam standing there near the house. 

Sam's hand on his arm makes Dean glance back towards him as he says, "Just consider it, okay?" Sam smiles, then heads back into the house, leaving Dean to turn back to Cas. 

Could he really do that? Let his little brother go off alone into the unknown? Stay here in this paradise with a man he had only met a few days ago but who has stolen his heart? 

As Cas approaches, he inclines his head as he smiles at Dean. "Is Sam okay? You look like you've seen a ghost." 

"Yeah," Dean assures him. "Yeah, he's fine. He’s a lot better, in fact.” Better enough to lay down some truths that have just rocked Dean’s world, at any rate.

“That’s great,” Cas says as he walks past Dean to wipe his boots carefully on the rough mat in front of the door to the mudroom. “Thanks for your help today, by the way.”

Dean shrugs, managing a smile through the turmoil in his head. “I hope it’s enough to get the farm back into gear.”

“If I can get some seeds in tomorrow it’ll still be a few weeks until anything grows,” Cas says with a grimace as he leaves his muddy boots near the door. “I should have enough stores to get through until then, though. As long as the Croats didn’t damage my freezers, I guess.” He casts a worried look towards the kitchen.

Dean’s smile falls as he considers the food situation—they’d mostly eaten greens from the garden since they’d been here, and without that, they were left eating whatever Cas has stored.

“Cas, I’m so sorry. If we hadn’t—”

“No, stop,” Cas interrupts. “It happened, and it’s done now. All we can do is move forward. I’ll go check the food situation. Why don’t you go get cleaned up?”

Dean looks down at his mud-streaked jeans and sweaty shirt—they’d discarded their coveralls for washing near the laundry door, earlier. He sighs, nodding as he trudges off towards the downstairs bathroom. 

Castiel takes his time in the shower, carefully scrubbing every inch of himself to try to remove the stain of digging graves and dealing with the dead. He hopes with his whole being that he will never have to do something like that again, although with Azazel dead, the chances of so many Croats attacking at once are very slim. 

Still, the Croats will keep coming, he knows. Azazel has done an excellent job of having the virus infect every corner of the country. But now he’s gone, and the community, hell, the whole country, can begin to recover. Sam’s immunity is crucial to help with that fight—he and Dean will have to leave for the city, and soon. 

The now-familiar dread pools in his stomach once again. Yesterday morning when Dean and Sam had left, he’d felt as though his world had been tipped over. How could they have just left him, after they’d agreed not to? 

This time, things are different. He knows they need to leave, he’s known that from the start. He has plenty of stored food to get him through until a new crop is ready, and he’s more resigned to going on alone, restoring the farm and preparing for a time when people will be able to move around again, free of the virus. 

He tells himself that he’ll be able to do this. He almost believes it. 

Back downstairs, Cas finds the house empty again. He doesn’t see Sam anywhere, but when he looks out the back of the house towards the cliff, he sees Dean sitting on the rocks above the cliff. The sun has already set, and as he heads out across the porch and down the stairs onto the grass, he sees that the first stars are out in the deep blue of the evening sky as it graduates to purple and red near the horizon. 

Cas clears his throat as he approaches Dean, since his bare feet are quiet on the freshly green grass. Dean glances up, smiling as he sees Cas step onto the rock and step down so he can sit beside him. He makes sure not to sit too close to Dean—he’s been so careful to keep his distance, mostly because he isn’t sure he’s going to survive Dean and Sam leaving again, and it’ll be ten times worse if he lets himself give in to his desire to let this man back into his heart.

But he’s finding it difficult. Especially when Dean smiles at him in the way he is right now—like he’s the only person in the universe. 

“Sam back asleep?” Cas asks, looking out over the valley, the desert quiet and still as night falls.

Dean chuckles. “Nah, he’s way better today. Sitting up in bed reading one of your books, when I saw him last.” 

Cas nods. “That’s great.” He breathes in, then out, his heart heavy as he considers what that means. “I guess you’ll be leaving again soon, then.”

“Yeah, Sam mentioned that this afternoon,” Dean agrees, his voice quiet and nearly carried away by the breeze. 

Cas’ heart sinks further. They’re really leaving. He’ll be alone again.

“Except…” Dean says, and stops talking.

When Cas glances at him, he’s looking back, his eyes shimmering in the fading daylight, full of promises.

Dean continues, “Sam suggested I stay here, with you.” 

Cas’ jaw drops slightly as he draws breath, hardly daring to hope, but he stays quiet as Dean continues.

“He says…” Dean pauses, hesitates. “He says he can get down there on his own, that he doesn’t need me to...to go along. He thinks that I’m needed here more.” 

Cas doesn’t dare to move, in case he wakes up from this dream. He murmurs, “And what do you think?”

Dean shuffles closer, his eyes gray in the dim light but alive, so alive with emotion. “I’m thinking...I’m thinking I might stay here with you, if you’ll have me.”

“Oh.” Cas closes the distance between them and kisses Dean gently, barely a soft meeting of their lips, with his hand grazing Dean’s jaw. He pulls back again, knowing with a tightness in his chest that he needs to give Dean the option to back out again if he needs to. “Of course, I would love it if you stayed. But Dean, I don’t want you to have to choose between Sam and...and me. You’ve looked after Sam for so long, I wouldn’t think less of you if you wanted to keep going with him.”

Dean shakes his head, a smile on his face. “No, Cas, you don’t get it. I’ve already chosen. I want you.” 

He chases Cas’ lips again, and Cas melts into him. 

Dean’s hands move around Cas, running down his back and under the hem of his shirt, reminding him of the way Dean had looked after him two nights ago, as his hands had run over Cas’ skin until he felt as though he might float away. That night had been so special, so perfect, and Cas wants more, so much more of that. 

He runs his fingers up the back of Dean’s neck and pulls a fistful of the short hair on the back of Dean’s head, making him moan into Cas’ mouth. 

Cas pulls back and stands, dragging Dean to his feet with him. “Come on,” he says breathlessly. “We can’t do this out here tonight.” 

Dean nods, and they both dash inside, only stopping a couple of times for Dean to push Cas against a door frame to grind their hips together, or Cas to pause on the stairs to lean down and kiss Dean deeply, his hands framing Dean’s face. 

They make it into Cas’ room, closing the door behind them and shedding their clothes as quickly as they can. 

When Dean stands still, completely undressed as Cas pulls his shirt over his head, Cas stops stil, just looking at him. Dean is beautiful, inside and out, and he’s obviously ready and waiting for Cas to take the lead here.

Cas grabs Dean by the shoulders, spinning them both around as he walks them over towards the bed. Dean’s knees hit the edge and he falls backwards, Cas climbing onto the bed after him as he tries to scoot up onto the mattress. Cas crawls up over Dean, leaning in to kiss him thoroughly, then pulls back and asks with his head cocked to the side and a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “May I?”

“Fuck, Cas, you’re gonna be the end of me,” Dean says, his heart hammering as Cas just smirks, moving to lick and suck at his skin in a rough line down to where his now hard and leaking cock waits, wondering if he still remembers how to do this—it's been a while. Cas licks up the underside, then takes him into his throat smoothly and without hesitation. Dean nearly jackknifes on the bed, muttering "Oh, oh god, Cas…"

Cas moves up and down on Dean, the slurping sounds downright sinful as he wraps his fingers around Dean's balls and pulls slightly, Dean gasping again at the pain. “Cas, Cas…" he says, "I’m not gonna...I’m gonna...”

Cas pulls off Dean, licking his lips as he stares down at him. “What do you need, Dean?” he asks, surprised at how wrecked he sounds right now.

“I need you to fuck me,” Dean says without hesitation. “I need that huge cock inside of me, please, Cas…”

Cas stares at him, open-mouthed for a moment as his brain goes offline, before he springs into motion with a growl in his throat. He crawls across to his nightstand, pleased that he'd moved his entire stock of lube, condoms and toys in here when he'd shifted bedrooms. He grabs the lube and a couple of condoms, dropping the packets on the bed before he squeezes some onto his fingers. He rubs it generously all over Dean’s hole while Dean writhes and moans with the touch. 

Cas takes his time with opening Dean up, pressing first one finger into him, then two. It's been so long since he's done this, and it'll take time to learn how Dean best likes it, but for now he seems to be enjoying it as Cas runs his other fist up and down Dean’s cock while two fingers are pumping in and out. 

He pauses for long enough to grab one of the condom packets, but fumbles with his sticky fingers until Dean sits up to take the packet from him and open it up. Dean rolls the condom down over Cas’ cock, catching his breath a little as he takes Cas’ shaft in his hot palm. 

When Cas looks up, their eyes meet for a moment and Dean smiles slightly. “Come on, baby,” he breathes. “How do you want me?” 

“Just lie back,” Cas replies, and Dean does, watching Cas as he moves forward, nudging his cock at Dean’s entrance. He pushes in, Dean's tightness gripping him deliciously as he smoothly presses forward to the hilt. He looks down into Dean’s eyes, as he gazes back up with a reverence that Cas doesn’t think he’s ever seen in a lover before. Dean leans up to capture Cas’ lips in a searing kiss, and they both gasp and moan as Cas rocks his hips a little.

Cas pulls back, then slams forward again, his body lighting up all over. He drops his face into Dean’s neck and utters, “Fuck, Dean.” 

“Show me what you got, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs, then devolves into moans as Cas starts up a rhythm, slow at first, but rapidly increasing until the headboard is rocking into the wall. Cas isn’t going to last long at this pace, especially when Dean is gasping out his name. He grips Dean’s cock in one hand and tries to jerk him at the same time, but he’s rapidly approaching the edge. He thrusts deep and comes inside Dean with a shout that he tries to muffle with his hand, and it only takes a few seconds more for Dean to also shoot spurts of white all over his own stomach. 

Cas slumps forward over Dean, his face resting alongside Dean’s neck as he breathes heavily. He slumps to the side, separating from Dean slightly but then coming back in to lie along his side as their breathing calms together. 

“Damn, Cas,” Dean says with a smile, wiping one hand across his sweaty forehead. “I could get used to that.”

“Me as well,” Cas says, pulling short laughs from both of them. Cas pauses, taking in the contentment on Dean’s face. “Are you sure you want to stay here, Dean? I can’t offer much of a life.” 

“That doesn’t matter,” Dean says, shaking his head slightly. “There’s something about this place, apart from the hot guy who lives here, of course.” He pauses, running his fingers down Cas’ shoulder and making him shiver slightly. “There’s a peace here—there’s hope. And you’re here,” he adds, leaning forward to kiss Cas sweetly. “So I’m staying.”

Cas smiles, then leans forward to kiss Dean again, and allows himself to finally hope for something more. For a future.

_Seven days later_

“You sure about this, Sam?” Dean hovers nearby while Sam picks up his pack, slinging it over his shoulder with a slight wince. 

Castiel shakes his head fondly at Dean’s fussing. He can’t believe Dean agreed to this in the first place, but now that it’s happening, Dean is more anxious than Castiel thinks he’s ever seen him. 

“Look, we’ve been over this,” Sam says, “I want to go find Dad, and give my immune blood to any survivors down there who might still be working on a vaccine. And you need to stay here.” 

Dean glances back at Castiel, the indecision clear on his face, but they follow Sam out and up the driveway, past the recovering vegetable garden, and under the apple tree branches towards the gate. 

As they walk under the apple trees, Meg appears. She trots towards Cas, nudging at his hip with her head. As he stops to scratch behind her ear, she bleats softly. She looks up at where Dean and Sam have stopped on the driveway just ahead then freezes, staring at them without moving. 

Dean does a sort of full-body shudder, muttering, “Weird-ass goat.” 

Sam chuckles as they turn to continue up the drive, and Meg merely stays still on the path as Cas walks forward to catch up with them. 

At the gate, Sam turns to look at Dean and Cas, his face grim.

Cas says, “Be careful, Sam. Look after that arm, okay?”

“I will,” Sam says, pulling Cas into a hug, to his surprise. “Thanks for looking after me.” 

Dean pulls Sam into a rough hug next, saying, “C’m’ere.”

The brothers cling to each other, making Castiel smile despite the burn in his chest. What he wouldn’t give to hold his family close like that. At such a difficult time, he knows just how much it must be eating them up to separate at all. 

He’s known this moment might come, but he isn’t ready for the butterflies in his chest as he clears his throat. “Dean, maybe you could go with him part of the way.”

Sam pulls back, looking at Castiel while Dean wipes at his eyes with his forearm. “No, don’t start that. Dean’s looked after me for most of my life.” He looks to Dean now, holding back emotions himself. “Wherever we’ve gone, you’ve always been there. Let me do this. I’m immune to the virus, so I just have to watch my back and stay away from Croats. I’ll be fine.”

Dean takes a deep breath and nods. “Okay.” 

Castiel lets out his own breath as Dean steps back to stand beside him, and he places his hand low on Dean’s back to support him. 

“Okay.” Sam echoes, opening the gate and closing it behind him with a metallic clunk. “I’ll find Dad, and I’ll come back, okay? I promise.”

“You better, bitch,” Dean says, managing a smile.

Sam huffs, hitching his pack up onto his shoulder again. “See ya, jerk. Cas.” He nods and gives a little two-fingered salute, before turning and resolutely walking towards Azazel’s abandoned van.

Castiel stands with Dean as they watch him go, as he shuts the driver’s door and starts it up with a roar in the quiet. He does a careful three-point turn on the wide part of the drive it’s parked on, then heads off down the hill.

Dean takes a hitching breath in and turns, looping his arm around Castiel’s waist.

Castiel leans into him, resting his head against Dean’s for a moment. “What would you like to do?”

They start the walk back through the orchard, the trees heavy with fruit that’s going to need to be picked soon. Dean’s been throwing himself into working on the farm the last few days—Cas assumes to take his mind off Sam’s departure. Around the corner of the drive, Meg is now nowhere to be seen, but Castiel can see the burnt shell of the shed on the far side of the vegetable gardens—there’s still plenty of work to be done trying to salvage whatever’s left of that. 

Dean’s answer surprises him. 

“Could we just go down to the cliff? I just want to make sure he gets to the road okay.” 

“Sure,” Castiel says with a smile. 

Down near the cliff, they sit together on the big rock, watching the morning sun stretch over the valley below. The rain has brought out flowers, the desert blooming in patches of purple and yellow wildflowers, dotted with splashes of red. The van appears from behind the trees, bumping along the uneven drive down to the road along the valley floor.

They watch him go together, Dean gripping Castiel’s hand, without saying a word. Then when the van is out of sight, Dean stands up, pulling Castiel to his feet. 

They turn back, together, to Eden.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please do leave a comment and tell us your feelings.
> 
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> Plus, if you'd like a little behind the scenes glimpse, I put some of the research I did on Permaculture for this fic into [a post on Tumblr](https://ellen-of-oz.tumblr.com/post/617458990146781184/lonely-eden-behind-the-scenes).
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